It’s 6:33 EST on a Monday morning. Two weeks ago, I was celebrating the fact that it was my last Monday morning (for a while) that I had to get up, shower, complete a short list of daily tasks, and go to school to continue my quest of enlightening American youths. My son, clearly oblivious to my “insane” desire to “sleep” longer than five consecutive hours on any given night, is now able to see me more often, especially in the morning hours. So far, one full week removed from my duties as a schoolteacher, we have developed the following morning schedule:
approx. 5:05–5:30 A cry emerges from the baby monitor beside my head. Unlike a fire alarm’s screeching immediacy, this sound begins more like a drunken man’s slow gurgle and, over the course of about twenty seconds, grows into a “Get the F Up, Dad” squelch.
While enjoying his first meal of the day beside his mother (whose inability to acknowledge his morning announcement is inconsistent with her ability to hear me say the slightest comment at any other part of the day), I bask in the glory of seventeen more seconds of shut-eye. It’s probably longer, but whatever the duration is is exactly the amount of time it takes for me to fall asleep again. Upon finishing his first breakfast, I take the reigns again and attempt to convince him that sleep is much more appealing than, say anything else imaginable. Usually, this works, but there has already been one morning when my pride and joy seemed to believe it was a much more reasonable hour to be awake and alert.
7:02. Again approximate, and this is only possible if he has fallen asleep again. [That gives me about 20 minutes to finish this blog, btw]
We have adopted the routine of playing a Baby Einstein video once he’s finally awake-awake. Judge if you must, but this 30 minutes (again, approximate) allows one or both of us to fully emerge from our own sleep states, sloppily make coffee, survey the apartment for tasks that must be completed, consume of said coffee, and perhaps have an opportunity to catch up with our friends via the InterWeb.
7:30ish He’s clearly done with the movie for the day, and our morning begins. The dog becomes thrilled to see me hoist the boy into the high chair because he (the dog) knows some remnants are sure to fall to the floor. For those of you who have never owned a dog, please take into account that dog-owning parents do not need vacuum cleaners. A full breakfast of a few of the following delicacies follows:
dry cereal bits
unseen lint formerly attached to the boy’s bib
itty bitty banana slices
torn-up pieces of silver-dollar whole grain pancakes
the boy’s own toes
water–sometimes consumed orally; the rest just soaks through his shirt/belly
Will you see anything like what you’ve just read in a parenting book? Unlikely. I don’t mean to complain; nor do I wish to present myself as anything short of stoked for being a Dad. The simple point of this blog this morning was for me to express to you and to myself that I’m pretty sure my sleeping past 8am days are over, but that I will have approximately 90 minutes to write most mornings.
Have a great day!
PS: This is an edit completed during his mid-morning nap. For the record, he woke up again at 6:53.