It’s Monday. 7:15 a.m.
My wife is leaving the house for her work commute. I’m on my own… and I’m immensely privileged. I’m also just a wee bit scared. OK, A LOT scared. Sending three children off to daycare and/or school without the rational influence of my wife is a daunting task. But watching groggy children shake off their slumber is probably one of the cuter moments of a parent’s day. OK, wife is out the door. This is when it all goes down. Time to get my game-face on. I’m about to wake up my children and establish a pre-daycare/school morning routine that needs to stick, else I may never get to work on time again.
Dear daddy blog reader,
Understand that these children are three immensely different characters who need to be finessed in subtle ways in order to get them moving and ready.
My eldest possesses similar attributes to my life partner: wise, helpful, and an old-soul despite his meager five years on this earth. I am at once boastful and hesitant to admit that he’s smarter than me. He could probably organize the morning mayhem better than I.
My middle child is basically me in child form. He’s serene and maddeningly unperturbed by any chaos around him. He gives new meaning to the phrase ‘deadpan’ although I think that he’s genuine in ignoring his father’s panicked pleas to GET A MOVE ON. Thinking about this, it’s a testament to my wife’s patience that she hasn’t killed me yet.
Then there’s my littlest, whom I’ll call “Tiger doll.” She’s a mix of my wife and I: equal parts sweet, enraged and hysterical. Tiny and mighty. She’ll charm your socks off with her unprompted hugs and playfulness one minute, and scream you into submission the next.
As far as adrenaline rushes go, there’s almost nothing better than this time of weekday morning for a dad who gets to experience simultaneous feelings of love and dread. Now, in about one minute the following series of events will take place, putting my organizational skills – and mental stability – to the test.
1. My two boys, aged five and three will finally wake up. They share a room. This is a fun thing both for them and for my wife and I. They’ve developed such great rapport. They talk to each other, try to make each other laugh and share their toys. And developmentally, they’re discovering that it’s not nice to get clipped in the eye by errant thrown Buzz Lightyear dolls or Lego blocks. They’ve also learned that you won’t win any friends by suffocating them awake with a pillow while giggling. Hey, we learn how to be part of society in our house. It counts, right? Don’t judge. That’s the happy part. But every morning is also World War Three in the boys’ room. Whomsoever wakes up first, gets the first dig in. It doesn’t have to be a physical dig either. It can be psychological. For example, one morning my middle child was feeling particularly aggrieved by his brother’s pestering. The result: upon awakening he stood to his full 3-foot height and declared to the house in his best Shakespearean soliloquy voice, “I have no brother!” My eldest could only sit in stunned amazement while I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Witnessing the emergence of your kids’ personalities and quirks is a nice reward for many a night’s sleep lost.
2. The boys’ noise-making wakes up 20-month-old Tiger Doll. She’s small, but her body weight-to-shrieking ratio is unparalleled. Hulk-like screaming ensues. Adorable Hulk-like screaming, that is. This is followed by the sweetest babbling noises and giggling, as she remembers that “addy” will be there soon. My wife is jealous I get to experience all this daily. But before I get my little “fits of fury” daughter from her crib, I first have to make sure her brothers have their acts together.
3. I enter boys’ room again. Break up the territorial skirmish and mediate the (numerous) trade violations. “He took my Buzz Lightyear!” “No! I had it first when he dropped it!” I usher both to the bathroom for their morning pees. On the way, more hugs and then pleas to witness how well they can flush the toilet. Numerous times. Can’t wait to see the water bill this month. Then I stop to realize yet again how lucky I am. Thankfully, my wife likes to hammer home to me that one must be present and appreciate moments like these. God bless her. I love enlightenment.
4. I supervise hand washing and teeth brushing post-pee, then send boys from the bathroom while I wipe up the inevitable urine “misses” at the base of the toilet. At this point, I silently agree with the observation a comedian-parent once made, that dads are not equipped for this sh*t. We like order. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch my eldest giving his brother a toy he wanted, just to be nice. I couldn’t feel prouder. At about this time, I usually take note that the roaring noise in the background has been going on for some time… and that it’s not an ambulance or a caged lion. Oh yeah, Tiger Doll’s been awake and ignored now for 10 minutes. She’s angry again. A cute, new “awake” position greets me every morning. Sometimes she’ll be on her back, legs kicking, toes wriggling. Other times she’ll be in the ol’ “bottoms-up” pose, waggling her tush like a happy puppy while sucking her thumb. Or, she’ll just be standing, holding onto the crib rail, eagerly glaring at the door. I’m feeling hectic and beginning to wonder if I’ll get to work on time. My fatherly brain has trouble adapting to the randomness of how quickly or slowly my kids’ll move on any given morning. I’m sure my wife would handle this with more panache.
5. I get my finally dressed sons appropriately mesmerized in front of the tube, ignoring all the stuff I’ve read in parenting advice columns that TV is bad for your kids. Really? Right about now, I want to throw my arms around Sony and pledge my undying allegiance to the TV gods. If the price I have to pay for getting breakfast and schoolbags ready is listening to endless songs from the Backyardigans and Elmo, so be it. At least no one’s crying.
6. I whip everyone’s cereal and/or waffles and/or strawberries and/or toast and jam together, lay them out on the table and then make like Usain Bolt for my daughter’s room.
7. I enter my Tiger Doll’s room. She’s standing in the crib, the biggest gap-toothed smile worn from ear-to-ear. “Addy! Addy! Ball!” She says this last word as “Bawwwl.” I oblige and bring her a favoured stuffed basketball. She grabs it, flashes me a smile and dives back down in her crib, hugging the toy with all her might. She’s in bliss. How lucky am I?
8. Time for the morning diaper change. I play tug-of-war with her over her diaper. The change pad sheet is now in need of incineration. My daughter just said “Up pease!” It’s two words, kinda. But hey, it’s a sentence! Soon, the Nobel Prize for language!
9. She’s clean, dressed and relatively calm. I hope the boys are still alive. Haven’t checked on them in about five minutes. There’s no squabbling, so all praise the TV gods.
10. Breakfast time. Everyone’s munching away. Quiet is restored.
11. A 10-minute struggle with shoes, Velcro and fall jackets in the foyer. Still, smiles abound and no one’s injured.
12. Into the van and daycare here we come! Can’t wait to repeat it all tomorrow.
Andy Levy-Ajzenkopf is a Toronto-based journalist and president of WordLaunch writing services in Toronto.
This was our fifth — and last! — entry into our Daddy Blogger contest, written by Andy. Please make sure you continue to vote on your favourite dad bloggers until October 12!