Sleeping In

He knocks on the bedroom door at 6:45 a.m., climbs into bed, slides his arm under my neck, and pulls me in so that our cheeks are squashed together.  “I didn’t need to bring Lamby,” says the little voice.  “I have you.”  Lamby being his favorite stuffed animal, this is quite an honor.  We lay there in peace for several seconds.   This is nice.  Maybe we’ll both fall back asleep until 9:00 a.m.

There’s a foot in my stomach.  The little voice can no longer stand the silence and begins to ask questions.  It begins to form hypotheses.  If it’s light outside, shouldn’t we be getting up?  Why aren’t we getting up if it’s light outside?  The conversation abruptly turns to trail mix.  They made some at school.  Ingredients are listed.  More questions are raised.  There were pretzels in the trail mix, but there were also pretzels in another bowl.  Why?  Why is this?  I MUST KNOW THIS RIGHT NOW.

I don’t know.  I’m sorry.  I’m starting to get a crick in my neck.  I roll over, check the time.  6:49.  The sight of one of my eyelids popping open has set off alarm bells in his head. 

HOLY SHIT IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP WE NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS BED RIGHT NOW OR WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIEEEEEEEEE

“Can we have pancakes?”  he asks.  Now he’s sitting up.  There is zero chance that he'll lay back down again.  Maybe not ever. 

“Not today, buddy," I say.  "We’re going to a birthday party and you’re going to have a lot of cake and stuff.”

“Why can’t we have pancakes?”

“I just told you.”

Almost imperceptibly, the little head starts to rotate.   Weekends are nothing but a slow descent into The Exorcist.

“CAN WE GET UP NOW?” 

“Okay, okay.  I have to go to the bathroom though.”  I take my phone into the bathroom and sit on the toilet.  I read some Facebook and try to get my eyes to open all the way.

BANG BANG BANG

“Mummy?!”

“On the toilet.”

BANG BANG BANG

“ON THE TOILET.”

BANG BANG BANG

'WHAT?"

“I need water.”

The doorknob starts to jiggle.   I wouldn't be all that surprised if he flattened himself out and slid under the door, like Judge Doom after he got steamrolled.  I let him in.  He gets some water.  We head out into the hall. 

"Let's go downstairs, buddy.  I have to feed the cats."  

He collapses to his knees.  "I don't WANT to feed the cats." 

"Okay.  I didn't ask you to." 

>>Insert screeching pig squeal sound here<<

  

"What? What's the matter?"

"I WANT to feed the cats."

"Okay, go ahead then."

"NOOOO!!!"

I stare in wide-eyed silence at what I can only describe as Gollum, hunched up on the floor, arguing back and forth with himself.



Except instead of arguing about whether or not he should kill Frodo and take back his Precious, he's arguing about whether or not he wants to feed the cats.  Or whether or not he wants his socks on.  Or whether or not he wants a hug.  This type of weirdness carries on over the course of the day.  It's only a matter of time before the pea soup projectile vomit starts flying.  But until then, I will assume this to be normal four year old behavior. 

I check the time.  7:02. 

It's going to be a long weekend.