My husband , K, and I take turns on the weekend waking up with the kids. Saturday is my day to sleep in and Sunday is his day to sleep in. Incidentally, we usually go out and get to bed later on Saturday nights. And my morning to get up is Sunday. Of course.
A sampling from a Saturday morning.
Max sneaks into our room, thinking he is quiet. A rutting bull is quieter than this child. He stomps down the hallway, grabs my iPad from the bedside table and runs out, fleeing down the hallway to his room and, obviously, wakes Zoe. (see reference to rutting bull).
Crying from Zoe’s room. Neither of us move. More crying. Non-movement. More crying. I clear my throat. K gets up and retrieves the children and brings them downstairs.
10 seconds of blissful silence.
Screaming/shrieking/howling begins. Deeper voice yells. Floor vibrating. Shrieking continues. Ends.
10 seconds of blissful silence. I burrow under the covers and sigh in relief.
Max is sent to his room. Zoe shrieks. Max throws tantrum in his room. Kicks door repeatedly.
I feel a presence. I open my eyes to Max next to my bed, three inches from my face, thumb in mouth, scaring the bejesus out of me. “Mommy when are you getting up?” He leaves.
15 minutes of silence in which I fall asleep. 3 seconds later, screaming. Deep voice yelling. Max appears again. “Mommy, I need some milk.” Seriously? Daddy is right there.
I finally get up.