Category Archives: morning

Monkey Tears

It was one of those mornings.

Michael was tired. He’d had a busy and exciting weekend at Grandma’s, had a long journey home yesterday with no nap, and he was in no mood to get back into the routine.

He didn’t want to go to school, and daddy was late as it was.

“C’mon, Michael. We have to hurry,” I said, gathering my stuff turning off lights.

“I want to eat something,” he said, quietly, as he sat down at the table.

“I offered you breakfast half an hour ago. It’s too late to sit down and eat. Let me get you some cereal and a banana and you can take it in the car.” I quickly poured some Froot Loops into a baggie, poured some juice into a sippy cup, snapped a banana off the bunch and grabbed Michael’s hand.

“I want my blue blankie!” he said.

“Then go get it!” I barked. He scrambled up the stairs, fumbled around in his room and came down the stairs only partway, then sat down where he was.

“I don’t wanna go!” He cried, tired tears rolling down his flushed cheeks.

“Michael, look. Mommy already went to work. Daddy has to go. You can’t be home alone. You always have fun at school. Now, come on. It’s time to go.”

I led him out to the car, buckled him in and handed him his breakfast.

“I don’t want the banana,” he told me, taking the cereal and juice and holding them in his lap, on top of his blankie.

“You don’t want this?”

“No,” he confirmed.

“Okay, I’ll keep it,” I said, and tossed it in the front seat.

Off we went. I could hear Michael’s soft sniffling in the back seat. He was clearly not pleased at the thought of being shuffled off to school on the heels of his exhausting adventure the week before.

Several minutes passed, the sounds of sniffling giving way to the sounds of munching on cereal.

I decided to eat the banana myself, since he didn’t want it.

Several more minutes passed.

“I want the banana now,” he said, softly.

“Sorry, kiddo. I already ate it.”

Silence.

Then, a low wailing began to rise from the back seat.

“Please!” he cried.

“Michael, you said no. You said you didn’t want it.”

“I’m saying yes now!” he bawled.

“I’m really sorry, Michael. It’s gone. See?” I held up the empty banana peel and wiggled it around for his inspection. This only increased the severity of his cry.

“But I wanted it!”

He wept bitter tears over the loss of the banana.

I tried to explain that this is an important life lesson: Sometimes, an opportunity presents itself only for a short time and is gone.

I’m not sure if he got the message this time, but I’m sure he will eventually.

Carpe Diem.

What, You’re Still Here?

This morning Michael’s Mommy left early for a dentist appointment, leaving me with Michael and two of his sisters snoozing away.

The plan was that one or both sisters would be in charge of Michael in between the time I left for work and his mom got home.

Luckily for his sisters, the little guy defied his normal routine by not arising until just about 8 o’clock, while I was making coffee. Ordinarily, if mom & dad have an opportunity to sleep in, he’s up at 6:00. But since we got up early, he slept in. But of course.

He came bumping down the stairs dragging a couple of blankies as I’m steaming milk for my coffee.

“So, you finally decided to wake up, I see…” I said, cheerily.

“Where’s mommy?” he asked, dismissing my observation entirely.

“She’s at the dentist, and she’ll be home in a little while.”

“Are you going to work?”

“Yes. Are you in a hurry for me to leave?”

He said nothing.

Moments later, as I’m screwing the lid on my travel mug, I hear him locking the baby gate on the stairs (why we still have that thing comes down to the fact that I’m both lazy and forgetful).

“I’m locked in! I can’t get out!” he says. “You have to help me get out,” he orders me.

“No, you can do it. If you got yourself in, you can get yourself out. Just squeeze and pull.” He struggles, and can’t undo the gate.

“I can’t do it!”

“Look, Michael, I’ve got to go to work, and so-”

“Okay, go.”

“No… I was going to say you need to have a sister awake and watching you.”

“Okay: you go, and then I’ll wake sister S up.”

“No, you go get her up now, and then I’ll go.”

“allllll riiiiiiight….” he says begrudgingly, and slumps up the stairs. He opens her door and chimes “Good morning, sister!” I hear a muffled sort of groan emerge from the dark cave that is her bedroom.

Just then the phone rings. It’s my wife, telling me she’s on her way back. I explain the situation at home so she knows what she can expect when she arrives.

Michael calls down: “You can go now!”

“Okay, bye everyone! Be good for your momma!”

“Go!” Michael shouts.

Sheesh. So much for separation anxiety.

I think if he had been able to open the baby gate, he probably would have kicked me in the kiester and dead-bolted the door.

Random Chunks

Michael shnookered his mom into letting him stay home with her yesterday. This almost always happens when I have to go into work early and leave her in his clutches. He’ll work up a sniffle or a cough and whine to a degree sufficient to tug at her hearstrings and bend her to his will. Fortunately he was a good boy yesterday and I did not come home to a beaten-down wife. I came home instead to a peaceful house and barbecue chicken and ribs already on the grill. So I can’t complain, can I? Quite the contrary.

One other note about yesterday is that Michael was ravenous all day. My wife said he spent the day grazing, and probably ate his weight in various items: blueberries, strawberries, ice cream, chicken soup, carrots, chocolate milk, and pretty much anything and everything in the kitchen. He was giving his sisters a good run for their money in the locust department. We figure he’s heading for a growth spurt. Given the amount he ate yesterday and this morning, he should grow another fourteen inches in the next week.

I had a restless night, spending most of my dreams chasing Michael around. I devote quite a bit of dream time to this sport. It’s like I don’t get enough time during the day extracting him from danger and bad behavior, I have to get a few more hours in while I’m snoozing. In last night’s dream theater, he somehow took our car for a joyride and managed to get pulled over by the police seven times before crashing into a lamp post and wandering off. While I was explaining this to his mom, he took my keys again and tried to park the car in a handicapped spot, scraping the side of another car in the process. I think I woke up at that point.

This morning, on the way to Ms K’s, I happened to fall in line behind a sheriff’s car. Ho, boy. I made sure I kept my speed at 30 miles per hour and drove with exceeding care. The cop rounded the corner ahead of me and disappeared. I maintained my speed until I rounded the same corner, and came upon him stopped in the middle of the road, his yellow lights flashing. I slowed down, and then he turned off his lights and continued on. Was he just baiting me? I would not have been surprised. I, however, was not going to get on that hook. We continued on for another quarter mile, and then he stopped again and turned on his yellow flashers. I stopped behind him, and waited. And waited. And waited. What exactly am I supposed to do now, officer? The signal is unclear. Do I go around you? Are we waiting for something? Finally a line of cars piles up behind me, and some guy in a big truck whose scant underwear were obviously in a bunch decided he’d had enough and started to pull around the both of us. Then the cop waved me around, finally. But I couldn’t pull out because Mr. Shortcomings had me boxed in. He pulled back a bit and I was able to get around. Thanks again for the memorable morning, officer. My driving time would be so boring were it not for Washington County’s finest.

Morning Madness

It wasn’t even seven AM this morning when I earned a big parenting “fail” badge.

On the mornings when my wife goes to work early, like today, I face the task of getting Michael up and ready and off to Ms K’s all by my lonesome. It’s not a difficult task, but it’s always fraught with complications which must be overcome.

This morning, it was Michael’s Mood.

I woke him up as I usually do by opening his blind, nudging him a bit and saying “Time to get up. Come downstairs so I can get you dressed.” I think this is a pretty standard dad-type method of waking up a kid.

As I ran a washcloth under warm water, I could hear him take slow, timid steps down the stairs and issuing a plaintive whimper between each footfall. He was gripping both of his prized blankets tightly with one fist and rubbing the sleep and tears out of his eyes with the other.

Not a good way to greet the day.

“Come on, Michael. Come down here so we can get you dressed. We don’t have a lot of time,” I said, trying to help him see the urgency of the situation. After all, I had a meeting to attend at eight o’clock.

His stifled crying gave way to full-on bawling.

“Michael! There is nothing to cry about! Quit crying!” I’m so incredibly sensitive and understanding.

He continued to sob as I directed him over to the couch to get him dressed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. He pointed at the TV, which was off. “You want to watch something?” He said nothing, but continued to point.

When he reverts to pointing and crying like this, I know he’s extra needy. But I wasn’t of a mind to try to reach him where he was, and I continued my tirade:

“All right, Michael, that’s enough. You have to stop crying. I’m not going to respond to pointing and grunting, you have to use your words.”

More pointing, and louder sobs.

I heaved a large sigh and turned on the set, hoping we’d find SpongeBob. No such luck, but The Imagination Movers was on, and he’s always liked that.

For the moment, he stopped crying. As I continued to get him dressed, he began to whine and point at the TV.

“What?”

“I don’t like this one,” he whimpered.

“Fine! Nothing! I’m turning it off!” I roared, angrily switching it off.

He began crying anew.

Inside my head, a voice was saying “Tom, why are you acting like this? Calm down and be a grownup. See it from his angle, and help him feel better.”

But I was angry, and I didn’t want to calm down. I was angry that he was crying about nothing. I was resentful because he doesn’t have to worry about anything, doesn’t have deadlines, doesn’t care that his dad has no choice but to go to work all day, but still he cries. And I wanted him to stop. I wanted him to see how hard life is for me other people, so he’d see that he’s got it too good to ever cry.

We continued with our episode, him crying and sniveling, my bellowing and growling.

I asked him what he wanted for breakfast, he pointed at the cupboard. I explained that there was a lot inside the cupboard, and he has to be specific about what he wants. He sobbed that he wanted Cocoa Puffs, and I got the box out and poured him a bowl.

He whimpered that he wanted to watch SpongeBob, and I put on one of the DVDs we keep in reserve for those situations where only SpongeBob will do.

And with that, he stopped crying.

And I stopped being angry.

When the calm had settled upon me, I felt horrible. As much as I had originally felt he was wrong for crying and whining, I knew I was far more wrong for behaving as I had, since I’m supposed to be the grownup. I’m supposed to be the one who can rise above my selfishness and see his need for what it is. I should be able to put aside my other burdens and tend to my child in a loving way. This is what I strive for, this is what I wish for. But I failed this morning.

The rest of the morning was much better.

By the time we got to Ms K’s, Michael was right as rain, chattering, asking questions, bouncing around, giving me bear hugs and running off to play.

But I wasn’t. I was still mad at myself. Even to the point of this writing, I haven’t let it go.

I have victories, and I have failures. I’ve been a dad for nearly sixteen years, and I’m still a work in progress.

It’s mornings like this that make me really appreciate my wife’s refereeing skills.

Calling Card

I felt a little bad last night after shutting Michael’s bedroom door, having said “Goodnight” but not “See you in the morning,” as is the custom these days.

I couldn’t rightly say it, because it would have been a lie. My plan was to head into work early in the morning, well before he got up. My wife had graciously offered to handle all kid duties and leave me utterly free to get myself ready and breeze into work to make headway on my project.

“I’ll get Michael up and dressed and going and take care of everything else so you can concentrate on getting to work early,” she told me over breakfast Sunday morning.

“Really?” I asked. I knew she would gladly do that for me, it’s just that I felt guilty for leaving her alone to deal with the weekday morning machinations surrounding the cyclone that is our son.

“Yes, it’ll be fine,” she reassured me.

I did some extra work at home on Sunday, feeling motivated by the prospect of an easy morning on Monday. I worked on my laptop there at the kitchen table while Michael sat in his spot next to me, occupied by eating lunch and/or playing with his Leapster.

This morning, after breakfast and coffee, I packed up said laptop and assorted notebooks and papers, kissed my wife and beat feet out the door. I marveled at the steadily falling snow, having never seen snow fall here so late in the winter. My thoughts returned to Michael, and how he would react to know that daddy wasn’t there to make his waffles or take him to Ms K’s. I felt a pang of regret, messing up our routine.

Once in the office, I got my laptop out of the case and set it into the docking station.

I was immediately rewarded by a stabbing pain in my left hand.

I looked to see what it was that had poked my palm, and saw a toothpick broken off in the laptop’s headphone jack.

Michael. He must have shoved the toothpick in there when my laptop was sitting on the table next to him.

I almost got angry… but that was quickly washed away, knowing it was Michael’s little calling card.

Even though he couldn’t tell me in person, Michael had found a way to say “I love you, daddy!”

The Problem with the DVD culture

Michael was watching “The Imagination Movers” on TV yesterday morning, when he realized that he had to go pee pretty bad.

He hopped backwards away from the TV, and called out to me:

“Daddy? Will you pause it?”

“Pause it?”

“I have to go potty!”

“I can’t pause it, kiddo. It’s broadcast. It’s not recorded.”

“Please?”

“Michael, it doesn’t pause!”

“Please, Daddy?”

“Michael, just go pee.”

Seeing that he was making no headway with his father, he opts for his usual punt strategy: Ask Mom.

“Mama? Would you please pause it?”

“Okay, Michael. Just go potty. I’m pausing it.” His mom grabs the DVD remote and pretends to press a button, which of course has zero effect on the TV.

He hops off to the bathroom, where we hear him hurriedly lift the lid and take care of business.

After washing his hands he comes back in the room to see the show is still going.

“Mama! You didn’t pause it!”

“One day you’ll learn to listen to me, sport,” I said. I’m not holding my breath.

No Weigh

Saturday morning. Michael and I are fresh out of the shower, and Michael spies our new bathroom scale. Up until recently, we haven’t had one.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“It’s a scale,” his mom says, and she pulls it out from under the chair with her foot.

“What’s it do?” Michael asks.

“You weigh yourself. Here, get on.” She lifts him up and sets him down on the scale. The needle swings up just a bit, and lands on about 35 pounds.

“Hmmmm…he registers about 40 pounds at the doctor’s,” his mom observes.

“Sheesh… that means I’m even heavier than I thought,” I say, disappointed in what I thought were monumental efforts to lose weight.

“Okay,” he says to his mom, “now it’s your turn!”

NO!” she roars softly.

Thinking quickly, Michael interprets her response.

“It’s just for boys?”

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s just for boys,” she confirms.

And if either one of us want to remain alive, that’s the way we’re going to keep it.

FourSpeak

Why is it so hard to get a straight answer from a four-year-old?

Michael came bounding downstairs just a few minutes ago, ready to start the day.

“Okay, Michael. What would you like to eat?” I asked him.

“Can I watch something?”

“You know the rules, sport. You have to be ready to go first. Dressed and fed. Then you can watch something. Now, what would you like to eat?”

“Where’s grandma?”

“She’s sleeping.”

“Where’s grandma?”

She’s sleeping.

“But where’s grandma?”

“Michael, what would you like to eat?”

“I think maybe…”

(pause for ten seconds)

“…maybe it’s something special…”

(longer pause)

“…and I know about it…”

“For crying out loud, Michael. I’m not in the mood for static. Just give me a straight answer!”

“Something… yummy…”

*sigh*

“Okay, Michael. I’m going to just get you dressed and you can think about food later,” I said.

“Sausage.” he said at last.

“Sausage it is.”

He’s now sitting and eating sausage, chatting with the salt and pepper shakers sitting in front of him on the table. Four is a magical age. For four-year-olds.

Protocol Is Key

One morning last week, Michael and I pulled up in front of Ms. K’s as is our standard weekday morning appointment.

I got him out of the car, set him on the ground and handed him his coat. My hands were full of his lunch box and other stuff, so I asked him to put it on himself. He’s good with that these days anyway, as he’s trying to up his status as “Big Boy,” tackling as many new challenges by himself as he can.

“I can’t get this,” he said, struggling with one of the arms.

“It’s okay, sport. We’re almost inside,” I assure him. We’re only a few feet from the door now.

“No! I have to get my arm in!” he says, more frantic and still struggling to unravel the right sleeve of his coat.

“Michael, we’re here. There’s no need to do that now.”

“ERRRRRGH!” he shouts, wrestling to reach behind himself.

Impatient, I open up the door, turn and pick him up, and then place him inside.

He instantly crumples on the carpet, defeated.

Ms J (Ms K’s mother) is there to greet us. She’s quite familiar with Michael and his antics, but this is a new one. She studies him as he remains motionless on the floor, like a dead beetle.

“What’s he-” she starts.

“It’s okay, I think I know,” I tell her.

I lift him up and set him on his feet, and take his coat off completely.

I fix the sleeve so it’s right-side out, and then hand hit coat back to him.

“Here, put this on.”

He obligingly does so, quickly and efficiently.

When he finishes, he looks up at me. I smile.

“Okay, now go take your coat and shoes off and put them in your cubby,” I say.

He does just that, without a moment’s hesitation, sunny disposition restored.

Sometimes, it’s not about the end result so much as it is about doing things in the right order.

Checklist Redux

I’d mentioned before that I have a checklist I go through with Michael each morning. This was an effort to help him remember what to do and what to avoid doing during his day at Ms K’s.

Like, don’t flush stuff down the toilet, and don’t yank the hardware out of the walls. Basic stuff like that.

Well, he’s been doing so well the last few months that I’ve dropped it entirely.

Instead, he has a checklist for me.

After a hug goodbye, and then the “one more and that’s it” hug that he always demands, he starts in:

“Got your money?” He asks me.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Got your food?”
“Yes.”
“Got your dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Got your lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Got your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Bye!”

Then, he dismisses me with a quick wave, and heads off to be with Ms K.

I no longer have to remind him to maintain his manners. Instead, he has to check on me, to be sure I have enough sustenance for the day. I wonder how much he thinks I eat at work?

Gotta love the little guy. This is a good sign that he’s learning responsibility.