A Morning Off

Every once in a while on the weekend I ask my husband for a delectable luxury. I ask him to get the kids up and fed so that I can shower and get ready to face the day all by myself. Most people would probably forgo the shower for a lie in. Not me, I revel in the unhurried shower. I adore it. The hotter the better. This morning was one of those when, feeling grubby and gritty-eyed, I woke to the sound of toddler blather drifting through the wall, peered over our pint-sized bed mate at HSSH and said (whined actually, but whatever), "Will you get them? I need a shower." "Sure," he murmured.

It's a risk. I know that he can sleep blissfully content while the baby coos beside him and pees through his diaper, his onsie, his sleeper, our sheet, the mattress protector and down to the mattress. He can also snore through toddler chatter, toddler renditions of ABCs that approach rock concert decibels, toddlers practicing trampoline moves in their cribs and other sorts of toddler mayhem that have me scurrying to stop them before something crashes through the floor. But, he's their Dad and if I want him to be in charge, it has to be his way.

On most mornings, I follow a familiar, organized routine. I brush my teeth and get dressed. I straighten my room and Cue's room. I change Cue's diaper. I choose outfits for all three children and then I take Cue into the toddlers' room. I shut the door so that they are all contained. We chat about the day while I raise the shades and lift Ess and Gee out of their cribs. They read books or play in the closet. One at a time, I change diapers and get them dressed. Then, we fold the jammies and put the books away. I carry the baby and the dirty diapers. As we head down the stairs, the upstairs is clean and ready for nap time. I make oatmeal and feed the baby while they eat. I clean them up, put them all in front of Clifford and then use that half an hour to clean the dining room and the kitchen. When the cartoon is over, everything is ready for lunch. For a few moments, nothing is sticky, wet or lying around.

This morning, I roll over carefully so as not to wake Cue, collect my clothes and whisper to HSSH, 'don't leave them in there for long.' He grunts after me as I head for the bathroom on tiptoe to avoid alerting the super sleuths in the next room to the fact that I have left my bed. The floor heater and the hot water drown all outside noise. Ah, sweet silence. I have almost 15 minutes of uninterrupted scalding hot cleanliness before the first noises invade. Something small, but heavy and determined crashes into the door. MOMMA!! You bath MOMMA!! I peer around the shower curtain. I see fat little fingers pushed under the door like stunted tentacles. MOMMA!! YOU!! BATH!! Sigh. Yes, baby, go and find Daddy. More crashing. The door rattles. MOMMA!! Ess, Gee, where is Daddy? HE GET HIS SOCKS!! Great, go and help him. I hear scurrying. It could be a scene from a horror movie. Revenge of the early-rising toddlers. Just when you thought it was safe to get back in the shower.

As I start to dry, I get intermittent reports through the door. QUINN EATING DIAPER! I TAKE OFF JAMAS MYSELF!! I WANT OATMEAL!! I NO WANT OATMEAL!! MOMMA, YOU HUNGRY? YOU WANT OATMEAL? MOMMA?!!! I keep the door closed. I know eventually Matt will take them downstairs. I dress slowly, apply make up, put my hair up. I wait several minutes after the continual chatter fades down the stairs before emerging. Their pajamas are in the hall. The dirty diapers have been scattered across the floor, bowled like pins by oblivious toddler feet. There is poop on the changing table pad. Every book from the book shelf is on the floor. All of the baby toys are scattered on the floor of the nursery.

The smell of French toast wafts up the stairs and makes my stomach growl. I straighten books and toys. I change pads and all the sheets. I put away two baskets of laundry. I fold the pajamas for bed time. Everything is in order. I collect the dirty diapers on my way out.

Downstairs, the kitchen is a disaster. I pour a cup of coffee and contemplate the need for every dish in the kitchen to be dirty in order to make french toast for three people, two of them quite small. I close my eyes and sip and try to ignore the raw egg on my counter tops, the pile of dishes in the sink. They are ecstatic over some activity at the dining room table. I know they are still sticky, covered in egg and cinnamon sugar. Listening from here though, they are adorably excited. PINK!! Ess shouts. NO!! BLUE!! GEE WANTS BLUE!! I assume they are coloring while HSSH reads the paper. I pull a mangled piece of French toast from one of their bowls and munch while I reflexively start organizing the mess. I put the milk, syrup and butter away with one hand, take another sip of coffee, start the hot water, sip, rinse the dishes, sip, wipe the counters. In ten minutes it is all done, wiped down, put away, ready for lunch. I pour a second cup of coffee and run a rag under the hot water to take with me and tackle their faces and hands.

They shriek with excitement when I walk into the room. They are sticking animal stickers onto brightly dyed Easter eggs. They hold them up, shouting louder, vying to be the first to show me their creations. The scene makes me stop, aghast, rag in hand. They are covered in syrup and egg and cinnamon sugar. Their noses are runny and their hands are dyed blue and pink and green. My good coffee mugs are lined up in a row in front of HSSH, each containing a different Easter egg colored fluid. The baby sits on HSSH's lap, his greedy, grasping hands precariously close to the mugs of dye (my GOOD mugs). His tongue and lips are blue from the dyed egg in HSSH's hand. He wriggles like a Labrador puppy in his eagerness to get the blue egg back into his mouth. YOOK MOMMA, YOOK!! A GIRAFFE!! A TIGER!! I meet HSSH's eyes and it takes effort, but I smile. Wow, I say. Those are beautiful. You're making Easter eggs. I need my camera. I turn, but then I pause and walk over, admiring the eggs while I nonchalantly rescue my mugs.

I return with the camera, mugs rinsed, every speck of dye washed carefully down the drain. I take some pictures, help them put the dyed, stickered eggs into the carton, all the while wiping - hands, faces, noses, table, floor, chairs - so that the last picture shows them, clean and unsnotty, their pretty eggs between them.
"Did you have a nice shower?" HSSH asks me.
"Yes, thank you. It was lovely."
"I can make you some toast."
"No. I stole some leftovers." He hands me my smurf baby. I manage to keep his blue lips off of my white t-shirt where they hover, looking for my nipple.
"Good. I'm glad you had the morning off because I really need to get to the hardware store." I nod and smile. "Go ahead. I've got this." I am already wiping the blue off of Cue's lips and out of his mouth with my last clean paper towel. I'm glad I had the morning off too.