it's possible that i'm not a morning person

I wrote this when River was three years old. It made me snort laugh, remembering my cheery, talkative toddler who is seven now and hasn't changed a bit, except that now he can get his own breakfast. 

My son is driving me crazy and he has only been up for an hour.

I always thought I wasn't a morning person. Okay, in all fairness, I'm probably not. My husband would definitely say I am not. I hate waking up early, I am a grump in the mornings, and I cannot function properly until about 11 am and after three cups of coffee. I'd say mornings and I don't do well, but the truth is, people and I in the mornings don't do well. There is nothing more annoying than a person trying to cuddle/have a conversation/demanding things of me early in the morning. And my family is a very cuddly, talkative, demanding one.

It was 8 am this morning when River brought his cheery little butt into the kitchen, propped himself up on a chair like a little squirrel, and said, "I'm hungry and thirsty. I want something to eat, and some water." First thing in the morning, every morning, this child wants to eat. He wastes no time. He is famished. I just got up thirty minutes ago and finished making John lunch and seeing him off to work, and would love nothing more than to make a pot of coffee and sit down on the couch wrapped in blankets and books. However, I suppose as a mother my job is to feed my hungry kid, so right away, I pour him a glass of water and get to making some Cream of Wheat. Fifteen minutes later, he has gobbled it down in its entirety.

As soon as he is done eating, he announces, "I want to go make a train track. Can I bring ALL the pieces in the living room and make one in here?" I tell him no, there are too many pieces and it would make a big mess, but his room is all clean so he has plenty of room to make one in there (I literally just finished cleaning his room last night after I let life happen to it for over a week. It was one of those things where it was messy and we had a few really busy days with no time to clean it up, so I kept putting it off until it got so bad that not a single toy was in its proper place and they had all practically been dumped and strewn around the room. It took me an hour to clean the whole room, and put every single toy piece back with its mate, back in its box, back in its place. I digress.)

Again, all I want to do is grab a cup of coffee and continue my "waking up process," since apparently it takes me about three hours, but I can see that going to his room with him to build a train track should promise me at least thirty quiet minutes after, with him in his room and I on the couch with my coffee. So I trudge to his room and set up a pretty cool track, one that he should love and appreciate. As soon as it is complete (I took it apart and started over at least once), he decides that he doesn't want to play train tracks after all, he wants to be in the living room with me.

"Okay," I sigh. "You may be in the living room with me, but I want my quiet time. You have to be quiet."

"Okay!" He yells. Everything that comes out of his mouth is a yell. I less-than-gently remind him that I'm right here and he doesn't have to yell, especially because his sister is still sleeping, praise the sweet Lord in heaven.

We make our way to the living room. My cup of coffee that I poured in-between Cream of Wheat and train tracks is cold. I sit in my spot beneath the lamp in the corner, coffee to my left on the table, laptop on lap, blankets in place. All is silent. Until River comes in with a book in hand, and begins situating himself on the couch next to me, while audibly explaining everything he is going. "Alright. I got my book. I'm just going to climb up here, and get under these blankets. Ahh. It is so cold. But these blankets are warm! I love you, Mama. I like being nexta you. Now, let's read. What is this book about? Hmm. The little boy was walking down the road... and then he saw a little tree, and..."

RIVER. Please. I told you, I need quiet.

"Oh sorry, Mama."

The rest of my "quiet time" is spent half-reading, half-listening to a solo game of rock, paper, scissors, answering random, slightly philosophical questions, and giving unenthusiastic responses to things a 3-year-old finds extremely interesting at 7:45 in the morning. That's right, I had almost forgotten a quiet morning is an impossibility for mothers, unless I want to get up at 5am. Which I do not want to do. Because, as I have clearly stated, I am not a morning person.