Mornings and Mayhem: Part 1

The other day was a pretty normal summer day. At 6:30 AM, I heard my alarm going off from the top of the stairs: “I have to go potty!” My three-year-old has mastered the art of using repetition to get what he wants. “I HAVE TO GO POTTY!” he yelled louder. Usually, I'm a morning person, but lately, that hasn’t been the case. I threw back the covers and quite literally rolled out of bed, my eyes half-open. I stumbled out my bedroom door and began to crawl—yes, crawl—up the stairs, my head still back in bed while my shell of a body made forward progress. I glanced up the stairs to see my three-year-old doing the potty dance, bouncing up and down. “I HAVE TO GO POTTY!” he repeated. I dropped my head and continued to climb. It’s been the same every morning since he decided to potty train himself right before his third birthday. I reassured him that I was moving as fast as I could as I stumbled upwards. I’m not sure why he insists on going potty downstairs in the morning. He knows how to use the potty on his own, but this little man will dance in place, clearly uncomfortable, and wait for me to come fetch him instead of using the upstairs bathroom. Finally, I made it to the top, and after fumbling with the gate, I took his little hand and we began to descend the stairs. I took a firm grip on the handrail as I wasn't quite confident in my legs just yet.

As we reached the bottom, he took off, running through the living room, around the kitchen island, and straight into the downstairs guest bathroom. Coffee—I needed coffee.

With big brother still asleep, it would be a little while before I had to start cooking breakfast. So, I slipped on my invisible hostess apron and set Josh, my “little alarm clock,” up in the living room by placing a cup of water on his desk and tuning the TV to his favorite show. We passed each other in the kitchen as we settled into our morning routine. I gave him a little kiss as he headed off to the pantry to pick out his morning snack. I needed coffee. BANG BANG BANG. I glanced over to the laundry room door. BANG BANG BANG. Looks like coffee would have to wait a little longer. Still in a fog, I stumbled to the kennel (laundry room) door and turned the handle. With the door only opened a fraction, a whir of fur pushed past me, yipping and barking in excitement. No, no, no, no, no. Not good—baby Hannah was still sleeping. “SHHHHHH. Brady! Cali! Stewie! Let’s go!” I picked up the pace as I rushed to open the back door. I opened it quickly and shooed the little fur balls out. I closed the door swiftly and cringed as I walked back to my bedroom to grab my phone off the nightstand. Please, please, please. I picked up my phone and opened the baby camera app. Relief flooded through me at the sight of my little 4-1/2-month-old, Hannah, sleeping soundly. Phew, now coffee.

As the coffee brewed, I quickly filled the dog bowls with kibble, then walked to the back door to let the pups in for breakfast. Just like earlier, with the door only opened a fraction, the kibble stampede rushed by as the trio raced to see who could get to their bowls first. After they settled in to devour their breakfast, the sound of the Keurig machine sputtering told me it was time.

With my coffee finally in hand, I settled into a lounge chair on the back porch. The morning was clear and the air was damp. I took a deep breath and looked out to the group of trees and playhouse that sit just beyond our pool. We moved into this house during COVID, and it was the best decision we could have made at the time—best backyard ever.

On a morning like this, the birds are busy, and so are the squirrels. I settled in and took a sip, listening to the birds and the muffled dialogue from the TV playing just on the other side of the window where Josh sat engrossed in his morning cartoons. Sitting there, coffee in hand, I slowly began to wake up, and so did my brain (the one thing that I wish would stay silent a little longer). Instead of enjoying the rare serenity, my mind began to race, going over all that was supposed to happen that day and all that needed to get done before the day was out. Even the beautiful, peaceful morning that God had laid before me couldn’t stop the anxiety from building in my chest.

It was Monday, which meant a grocery run to H-E-B and Costco. Soon, I would have to leave my quiet morning sanctuary to take advantage of the “free” time before breakfast to make the grocery lists, but first, I intended to savor the alone time and sip on my coffee.

While sitting in a daze, I heard the back door open to my right. I glanced over to see my bed-headed 5-year-old, Luke, standing in the doorway with a glazed look in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t a morning person either. I kicked myself for sitting too long. After looking his way, I smiled and said, “Good morning, sleepyhead.” He walked over and crawled into my lap for a quick morning cuddle. “Can I have a snack?” he asked as he began to push away. I nodded and helped him off my lap. “Breakfast will be ready soon,” I said as he walked back inside. A slight nod in response was all I saw as he disappeared back into the house. I let out a sigh and picked up my phone to check on my 4-1/2-month-old. I was happy to see her still sleeping soundly. I grabbed my coffee and stood to follow Luke back inside, making a mental note to make the grocery list after breakfast.

“I don’t want to watch Blaze,” I heard as I walked through the back door. “Well, that’s what’s on right now,” I quickly replied to my five-year-old, who was emerging from the pantry, morning snack in hand. As the heavy pout settled on his face, I walked past him to the pantry to grab ingredients for breakfast, not stopping to give the complaint any attention. As I emerged from the pantry with ingredients cradled in my arms, I looked over to see my five-year-old sitting at his desk, completely engrossed in the TV, clearly having forgotten that he didn’t want to watch Blaze. I rolled my eyes but was relieved. Some mornings it’s not so easy; this morning, I lucked out. After laying the ingredients out on the counter, I bent to grab a cup out of the kiddie drawer, filled it with water, and walked into the living room to place it in front of my five-year-old, who sat staring up at the TV with his snack hanging out of his mouth, completely forgotten. I looked up to see what had him so mesmerized—just a monster truck on a dirt track. “LET'S BLAZE!” the truck shouted as it raced out of danger. I shrugged and turned to walk back to the kitchen.

Once again, I reached for my phone to check on Hannah before starting breakfast. I let out a breath of relief upon seeing that she was still sleeping soundly. “I’m hungry!” I heard Josh shouting. Josh is my strong-willed child. He’s the one who runs full speed without thinking about what awaits him ahead. He’s the one who doesn’t learn his lesson the first time, but maybe the fifth or sixth time. He’s my fearless child, full of very strong emotions. He’s the one who listens but isn’t really listening. Of course, we’ve talked about being polite too many times to count, but it seems to always fall on deaf ears. Too tired to rehash a conversation we’ve had 999 times before, I responded with a quick, “I’m working on it.” Mom guilt always settles in when I choose the easier path, and I wondered if I might cause harm by choosing not to take the time to have that conversation for the thousandth time. But mom guilt would have to wait for a quiet moment later because two little boys needed their breakfast.

To be continued . . .