This morning Turner lazily pulled himself into my bed as he has been doing every morning since the move into our new place. He wakes up around 5 AM, pokes me so that I'll pull him into the bed, and he snuggles his cheek flush to mine so I can smell his morning breath. He vanishes back into dreamland after at least thirty minutes of groans and grumbles from me to re-emerge around 6:30 or 7.
This morning, I did not fight him. When he brought himself into the bedroom at 6:30 I just got up and started our day. Of course I was encouraged to do this because Turner had peed in his sleep, and I needed to do some sanitizing. Either way, I was up before I wanted to be and chatting with him about his day. I remember my mother, the perpetual morning person, chatting away to me in the morning from her blue bathrobe while I hovered over corn flakes and responded in silence. Turner is now the chatty one in the morning and I continue to respect the no-talking-before-ten-rule by smiling at him a lot and touching his head, inserting the occasional "uh huh" when and where appropriate.
I make us some pancakes. Slice strawberries. Find the syrup. Cut it all up. Serve it to him. He eats and runs his cars around the table, narrating their race drama to me. I sit down to eat my pancake. I unload the dishwasher. I clean the cabinets. I unpack a box. The green car is winning but, oh wait Mommy, the ambulance is passing him. Everybody is clapping. I kiss his head and wonder how he knows so much. I return to his pancake and prompt him to do less chatting and more eating. He obliges for a moment. I think about lunches and clothes and hunt for clean underwear for the little guy (and me too of course). I secure the necessary undercloths, throw Turner's plate in the garbage, convince him he can ride his tricycle after school, and we are finally on our way up the stairs to the shower.
As always, he resists the shower. I shower alone and give him a good wipe down. I turn Pandora.com on and listen to a little Norah Jones. While I'm drying hair, curling eyelashes, and finding some clothes to wear that are presentation-worthy, yet bicycle appropriate, Turner disappears into the office. I go check on him. He is sitting in the desk chair, his knees pulled to his bare chest, little basketballs that once danced more vibrantly on his faded underwear are pinned to a kitchen chair that is now the desk chair. He looks up at me and wraps his arms around his knees like a teenager. "I just watching the music Mommy. I no touch. I promise." I smile. I must absolutely kiss his forehead again. I thank him for respecting Mommy's expensive toy (the computer). I ask why he likes watching the music. He says it makes him feel good. Music feeds my spirit too.
This morning, I did not fight him. When he brought himself into the bedroom at 6:30 I just got up and started our day. Of course I was encouraged to do this because Turner had peed in his sleep, and I needed to do some sanitizing. Either way, I was up before I wanted to be and chatting with him about his day. I remember my mother, the perpetual morning person, chatting away to me in the morning from her blue bathrobe while I hovered over corn flakes and responded in silence. Turner is now the chatty one in the morning and I continue to respect the no-talking-before-ten-rule by smiling at him a lot and touching his head, inserting the occasional "uh huh" when and where appropriate.
I make us some pancakes. Slice strawberries. Find the syrup. Cut it all up. Serve it to him. He eats and runs his cars around the table, narrating their race drama to me. I sit down to eat my pancake. I unload the dishwasher. I clean the cabinets. I unpack a box. The green car is winning but, oh wait Mommy, the ambulance is passing him. Everybody is clapping. I kiss his head and wonder how he knows so much. I return to his pancake and prompt him to do less chatting and more eating. He obliges for a moment. I think about lunches and clothes and hunt for clean underwear for the little guy (and me too of course). I secure the necessary undercloths, throw Turner's plate in the garbage, convince him he can ride his tricycle after school, and we are finally on our way up the stairs to the shower.
As always, he resists the shower. I shower alone and give him a good wipe down. I turn Pandora.com on and listen to a little Norah Jones. While I'm drying hair, curling eyelashes, and finding some clothes to wear that are presentation-worthy, yet bicycle appropriate, Turner disappears into the office. I go check on him. He is sitting in the desk chair, his knees pulled to his bare chest, little basketballs that once danced more vibrantly on his faded underwear are pinned to a kitchen chair that is now the desk chair. He looks up at me and wraps his arms around his knees like a teenager. "I just watching the music Mommy. I no touch. I promise." I smile. I must absolutely kiss his forehead again. I thank him for respecting Mommy's expensive toy (the computer). I ask why he likes watching the music. He says it makes him feel good. Music feeds my spirit too.
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