Batting 1000

Tuesdays are crazy. Matt needs to leave the house with Ess and Gee close to eight in order to maximize preschool time. Technically, drop off is between eight and eight thirty, but in my opinion dropping them off at any time after about eight-oh-two is a waste of a perfectly beautiful half an hour when there could be two less kids in my house.

Since we all - and by we all I absolutely do mean Matt and I - don't roll out of bed until seven most mornings, it can be tight. I don't know why I do that. Stay in bed until seven. It's mostly miserable after six thirty. Ess and Gee and Cue are wrestling or licking through the safe paint on the walls in order to access the lead paint or dropping books down the heating vent in their bedroom. Nate is usually chewing on my nipple like it's an Olympic sport. I'm completely, uselessly awake and yet I can't bring myself to apply cold, bare foot to freezing floor until the clock says seven.

It just is. I entered their room already feeling a bit behind and they sensed my hurry with their little toddler-preschooler-shark hurry sensors. Instantly, they hit irritatingly slow and uncooperative mode. Where normally we would just get dressed, once they sensed hurry, Gee had his underwear on his head and Ess whinged because her arm wouldn't go into her sleeve and Cue screamed because I had the unbelievable audacity to fetch a clean diaper myself after he ignored my repeated requests that he please do so.

We made it through cereal only because Matt went down and got everything ready while I cracked the whip over getting dressed. I popped waffles in the toaster (because for some reason we have this pattern that they eat waffles after they eat a full bowl of cereal in the morning). As I re-entered the dining room, I caught Gee twirling his mostly empty cereal bowl around in a circle with his finger so that it resembled an old fashion record player except that instead of music pouring forth, milk streamed, in a perfect spiral, from the bowl and decorated my dining room.

"NO!! That's it!! You. are. finished. Get down. Go get your shoes on for school."

"But I want my waffle."

"No. No waffle. If you play with your food, you're done. Those are the rules."

"WAHAHAHAHAHAH! WAHHHHAAAAAAAHHHHHAAAA!! (incoherent screaming/sobbing) WAHAHHHNT my WAAAAFFFFLLLEEEEE!! (incoherent snot bubbling)."

"GO! NOW! SHOES! I AM FINISHED WITH THIS BEHAVIOR."

He went amid regularly timed screams and dripping snot and heartbroken pleas for "hi-hi-hisssss wa-wa-wa-wa-ffle."

I was unmoved. This consequence is well-established in our house. Many, many children have left the table for playing with food. It is so expected that I am surprised he didn't pick up his bowl himself when I walked into the room.

My irritation grew as his drama continued and his shoes remained off. It was eight-oh-four. The great waffle scream fest was tragically cutting into preschool-children-are-not-here time.

He shuffled into the mudroom where his sister was ready to go and stood there sobbing. Matt sat on the bench, putting on his shoes. I could see the scene through the kitchen window that used to look out into the backyard and now looks down into the mudroom, like a movie, the volume muffled, the emotions taken out of me, removed. My sympathy returned, watching him cry. He is so little still.

"You are not getting your waffle, buddy, you know the rules," Matt told him in a calm, regulated voice. It was a statement of fact. He was not angry or irritated or hurried. "You can't play with your food. We still love you though, we always love you."

It is something I say often, but I had not said it that morning.

Gee's face crumpled and he cuddled into his Daddy's shoulder, sobbing. Oh. So then. Not the expected consequence at all. Not the waffle so much. Rather, the harshness in my tone, the impatience, the hard set of my face. My tired, understandable desire to have them gone for a few hours, even though I'll be there at noon, eager to get them back.

I am so thankful to have Matt on my team. Just when I am about to strike out, he hits it out of the park.

(Eight-oh-eight, the silence of one two-year-old with all the toys to himself. Coffee with cream and sugar. Sigh.)