Too early. At least the first time. This is when my son walks in, still sleepy himself, and crawls up and under the covers. He doles out hugs and kisses, snuggles up and says “Mmmm,” and a few mornings ago he actually uttered the words, “I love you, Mama,” voluntarily. I close my eyes again, enjoying the calm before the storm.
He grows tired of resting, and waiting. He can no longer control the impulses of the Terrible Twos. “Mommy,” he says, quietly at first, “time for my snack.” The fact that I’ve told him, oh, a million times that it’s called breakfast is lost on him. “Mommy,” he continues, losing his patience, “I need to go potty.” “Just go,” I whisper, eyes still closed.
But that’s not good enough, and he starts pulling out the big guns. The TV remote is laid on my cheek; the baby monitor’s antenna is pushed up my nose. He resorts to the phrases he knows will get me moving, like anything involving pee and fabric. A tub of chapstick is smeared over the bathtub and faucet, changing tables are climbed, drawers are emptied.
At last a tiny person reappears next to my pillow, face centimeters from mine. “Mommy,” he whispers again, finally cutting to the chase, “get up and make me happy.“