Before my eyes were open and before the sun made it over the horizon, it was time to discuss when my six-year-old’s doll had been born. “I think that Margaret’s birthday is in May.”
Clearly, this had us thinking about the calendar.
“Mama, why do we celebrate the fourth of July?”
Brief description of Revolutionary War. Disambiguation: no, the Pilgrims didn’t fight.
“Did they wear armor in that war?”
Discussion of wigs as seen in most recent Magic Tree House book.
Interspersed throughout the Q & A period in which I mumbled and Moira mused, Mairead began her own interrogation.
She accepts this and knocks me in the face with her water bottle. Really, she is being quite reasonable for a 23-month-old. I’m able to yank my shirt down and tickle her ‘til she giggles. It beats the screaming.
Everything beats the screaming.
But Mairead is persistent. “Hungry?”
We are on the precipice of the hysterical screaming danger zone.
I assume you hear the plaintive desperation in the toddler’s voice.
Finally, I clamor through the tangle of sheets and dolls and little girl limbs to reach for the phone. Must be sure it’s dawn and not my neighbor’s ever-present flood lights casting a cold glow to the curtains.
“Clock. Time. Eighteen. Ladybug?”
This is Mairead’s first of 187 attempts to steal my phone and find the app about bugs.
I stumble out of bed as the whining begins. I am going to the bathroom before I answer another damn question or scare up a single morsel of food. They resent my selfishness.
But there’s magic in this morning. There is hope in the air. A sliver of silver hangs in the steel blue sky.
“Lady moon! Quick, everyone out of bed!”
And they listen. They’re as excited as they’d be if they spotted Santa’s sleigh.
Clearly I’m doing something right in spite of it all.
There are stories being made before the sun is up and before your eyes are open. Can you see them?