The Bathrobe
I open my eyes to a loud banging of toys. My mind races hoping that second in time was not long enough for me not to get back to sleep. My eyes slam shut, only to re-open. I groan. I roll over and try again. I open one eye to look at my alarm clock. Why do I even care what time it is? 7:12 a.m.
Fine. "Good Morning," I grumble loudly.
I hear happy laughter and "Good Morning, Mom", muffled from behind two closed bedroom doors.
I do not even act like I am happy for the first ten minutes I am awake. I can't put forth the effort required. I need those minutes to learn to be nice for the next hour. My morning ugh's last that long.
I feel myself brighten as I reach for my new bathrobe. It is second-hand from a friend. It too, feels warm and comfortable. It is hot pink. I could hardly resist the colour! It is strange to start feeling so good so quick. My mind takes note of that. I will remember to hang this up every night on the hook, I think to myself.
Now for coffee.
I turn the corner into my kitchen and halt. I am horror-stricken. But how far do I really want to take this? Do I really feel like bursting into tears? Can I just clean-up the mess? How much can one bathrobe really do for my morning mood?
There is hot chocolate. Everywhere.
But someone has used cold water to make it. There are huge, thick water-logged lumps of syrupy brown amongst the mess.
Three blue coffee mugs full. One Big Gulp from the 7-11. One white mixing bowl. And every up-turned dish in the sink.
And oooohhhh...The floor...
I did not even realize I had this much hot chocolate in the house. No one here really likes it. I guess my son's tastes have changed.
He comes up to stand beside me. We look at the mess like we are up top a hill looking below at war carnage. He looks up at me, with his head slightly bowed, wringing his hands.
My son likes to make experiments in the kitchen. And the bathroom. On a regular basis. It is worth any punishment I can hand out. I sigh.
The affects of the bathrobe has made me happy enough to send my son out of the room; instead of getting more annoyed by the way a 6 year old helps clean. I send him to the couch, letting him know his mother would kindly appreciate him not moving or I might let him clean up the entire mess with toothbrush and tongue.
My son grins. It is a rare day indeed Mom is funny before her first coffee.
It is seven minutes into my day and I learn cold water makes half-mixed hot chocolate powder really stick on my coffee mugs.
As I am scrubbing, I find myself hoping there is a method to his maddening source of enjoyment. I really hope he makes hypotheses and has theories he is testing. I find myself grateful it was not one of those Play-Doh days.
Fifteen minutes into my day I sit down beside my son on the couch he has not moved from and enjoy the smell of the coffee brewing. Sunlight filters through my living room curtains, clean and inviting. I take a deep breath and a large stretch. I feel my morning blahs slide right out of me. I smile at my son and ask politely, "Can Mom watch a talk show this morning?"
Before he can answer; the phone rings...
(To Be Continued)
I open my eyes to a loud banging of toys. My mind races hoping that second in time was not long enough for me not to get back to sleep. My eyes slam shut, only to re-open. I groan. I roll over and try again. I open one eye to look at my alarm clock. Why do I even care what time it is? 7:12 a.m.
Fine. "Good Morning," I grumble loudly.
I hear happy laughter and "Good Morning, Mom", muffled from behind two closed bedroom doors.
I do not even act like I am happy for the first ten minutes I am awake. I can't put forth the effort required. I need those minutes to learn to be nice for the next hour. My morning ugh's last that long.
I feel myself brighten as I reach for my new bathrobe. It is second-hand from a friend. It too, feels warm and comfortable. It is hot pink. I could hardly resist the colour! It is strange to start feeling so good so quick. My mind takes note of that. I will remember to hang this up every night on the hook, I think to myself.
Now for coffee.
I turn the corner into my kitchen and halt. I am horror-stricken. But how far do I really want to take this? Do I really feel like bursting into tears? Can I just clean-up the mess? How much can one bathrobe really do for my morning mood?
There is hot chocolate. Everywhere.
But someone has used cold water to make it. There are huge, thick water-logged lumps of syrupy brown amongst the mess.
Three blue coffee mugs full. One Big Gulp from the 7-11. One white mixing bowl. And every up-turned dish in the sink.
And oooohhhh...The floor...
I did not even realize I had this much hot chocolate in the house. No one here really likes it. I guess my son's tastes have changed.
He comes up to stand beside me. We look at the mess like we are up top a hill looking below at war carnage. He looks up at me, with his head slightly bowed, wringing his hands.
My son likes to make experiments in the kitchen. And the bathroom. On a regular basis. It is worth any punishment I can hand out. I sigh.
The affects of the bathrobe has made me happy enough to send my son out of the room; instead of getting more annoyed by the way a 6 year old helps clean. I send him to the couch, letting him know his mother would kindly appreciate him not moving or I might let him clean up the entire mess with toothbrush and tongue.
My son grins. It is a rare day indeed Mom is funny before her first coffee.
It is seven minutes into my day and I learn cold water makes half-mixed hot chocolate powder really stick on my coffee mugs.
As I am scrubbing, I find myself hoping there is a method to his maddening source of enjoyment. I really hope he makes hypotheses and has theories he is testing. I find myself grateful it was not one of those Play-Doh days.
Fifteen minutes into my day I sit down beside my son on the couch he has not moved from and enjoy the smell of the coffee brewing. Sunlight filters through my living room curtains, clean and inviting. I take a deep breath and a large stretch. I feel my morning blahs slide right out of me. I smile at my son and ask politely, "Can Mom watch a talk show this morning?"
Before he can answer; the phone rings...
(To Be Continued)
Comments
I smiled as I read it... I have a son who will be 6 in October.
I only have two words for ya... Maple Syrup. Couch.
Guess that's 3 words. True story, though.