“Morning time! It’s morning time,” my toddler announces repeatedly from crackly baby monitor feed, through hallway, and directly into my face as I sleep on the very edge of the mattress. My husband is still snoring from the center of the bed because years of marriage and cohabitation haven’t broken him of the habit. The baby is stirring, by which I mean flailing, in her bassinet.
“Les go downstayahs?” the boy asks.
“You wanna go play in your room for a few minutes?” I suggest instead.
“Yeah! Me wanna play in my room wit you!”
“OR, do you want to play in your room by yourself and then we’ll go downstairs in a few minutes?” I try again.
He laughs. Loudly. Maniacally. And he runs back into the hallway to rattle the baby gate at the top of the stairs. “Les go, Mom! It’s morning time! Les go downstayahs.”
My husband chuckles, “so that failed.”
“He’s too smart, man. I hope it serves him well some day because it kinda sucks for me right now.”