Nate’s day began early. When I came upstairs to get him, he immediately asked me “you take shower?” I said no, sleepily wondering if he was crazy. “I hear water on Daddy’s head,” he said. Well, that explains the bright eyes. He’s been awake for a while, laying quiet in the morning silence.
The pleas of “I’m hungry" begin, so it’s downstairs for cheerios and milk. I’m fooled by the begging and give him too big a bowl. His voice is louder than his stomach—I shouldn’t be surprised by now. I don’t even want breakfast, just a quick look at my email. One brings news of a financial mini-crisis that has to be dealt with immediately. I’m unable to get resolution until I take the matter public on twitter. Then? Instant results. I turn to Nate to see if he needs to visit the potty, but the distraction took took too long.
Curses.
I jump in the shower, leaving him to his coloring. So far, the walls and carpet are intact, and I’m praying it stays that way. It’s errands morning and Nate isn’t thrilled with the idea of getting dressed for public. “But I don’t want a shirt!” I found the shirt with the basketball-playing monkey, and he’s happy. It won’t come off for three days.
We’re out the door and headed to the “blue store” for school supplies. Nate announces that he doesn’t want to ride in the cart, but I’m not stupid. Wal-mart (and its wares) isn’t big enough to hold a three-year-old’s energy level. We head to Target next, where I give him four board books from the dollar section. Bonus points for me: they’re by Disney and he’s just discovered Mickey Mouse. He happily jabbers away about “Goofy cooking burgers! Donald ice skating!” as I try on a shirt in the dressing room. The books are destined for a gift, but he’s bargaining with me to keep them himself. “All for me? Pwease?” No, Nate. “Two for me, two for pwesent?” No, Nate. Stinker.
Hunger strikes the little belly again and I still have to stop at the bank. “I so hungry,” he whines. I rush home, to make “peanut butter and honey sandwich, pwease.” He’s on a no-jelly kick. After all of the hungry noises, he only wants part of it. I don't want to fight with him, so I give him some trail mix before naptime.
Things are quiet; I work on receipts, emails, then put away the computer to do a DIY project for the kitchen. “Mommy mommy mommy!” He’s up. I finish up and he picks up coloring again. Crayons out of the box, into the desk, and back again. I'm not sure which is more fun, scribbling Curious George red or shuffling broken crayons in thirteen places. He's happy, but it doesn’t last.
Daniel walks in the door and brings a toddler meltdown with him that continues into dinner. Vine ripened cherry tomatoes—the horror! It’s just Nate and I for the evening as Daniel is visiting friends, but he begins the bedtime process before he leaves. More potty training, this time with a stack of books and cries of “I have more pages, Mommy!” Diaper on, Yankees pajamas on, prayers said. “Night night, I love you!” I love this boy and his sweet kisses. Two hours later, he’s awake. “I wanna get up.” Not quite, son. Go back to sleep.
It's a toddler's day. He laughed, fussed, ate, napped, colored, went shopping, and went to bed. Tomorrow, we'll do it all over again. I'll tell him to put the crayons away because it's time to eat, and he'll line up all his cars in a straight line and tell me their names. Just like a toddler's day is full of energy, toys, and peanut butter honey sandwiches, so a mommy's day is full of chasing, instruction, and laundry. We react and follow each other throughout the day. It’s my job to guide him through the unknowns and the needs of the day. It’s his job to allow me to help and love him, all the while making me laugh.
It’s a good day. It’s life.