Someone please tell me that mornings are a battefield in their home, too? Please!
I’m not just talking the normal rush and chaos of getting out the door. I’m talking tantrum-throwing, tears-flowing, food-tossing disasters.
Here’s this morning’s rundown:
6:45 a.m.: I wake up and catch the final block of the local news to try and figure out how to dress E. for school.
7 a.m.: Watch top of the Today Show, immediately start feeling sad about Christina Green
7:10 a.m.: As I’m lathering the shampoo into my hair, E. bursts through my bathroom door screaming “POTTY!!” Me: Can you let Daddy help you? I’m in the shower. E: NOOOOOO! Only youuuuu, Mommy!!! Me: Well can you wait a second until I least get the shampoo out of my hair. E: Nooooo! Potty now! Me: Then go to your bathroom and use your little potty chair. E: Noooo, use your potty! Me: Then you’ll have to hold it.
In the meantime, as this was happening, I was rushing to get the shampoo out of my hair and dammit, I took 6 seconds to run conditioner through my hair and quickly rinse it out. I’m sure there are still chunks of it in there
7:12 a.m.: I hop out of the shower, soaking wet, and put her on our toilet. Of course, she’s not even situated yet on her potty seat before she starts going, which results in urine all over the toilet seat, her legs, our floor. Fun.
7:15 a.m.: I throw a robe over my still-wet body (who has time to towel off?), I head out to the kitchen to get her breakfast started so that at least I can get dressed while she’s occupied.
7:16 a.m.: Me: Do you want Elmo sticks (code for Earth’s Best French Toast sticks, her normal favorite). Her: Nooo! Me: How about oatmeal? Her: Noooo, I want Mickey pancakes. (I have no idea what this means, other than she’s remembering the one time at Disney where she had Mickey-shaped pancakes during a character breakfast). Me: OK.
7:18 a.m.: I return with whole-wheat waffles, which I tell her are Mickey waffles that I already cut up. Crisis momentarily averted.
7:20-7:50 a.m.: She enjoys a leisurely breakfast of waffles, a kiwi and apple juice while watching Handy Manny. Meanwhile, I race around getting dressed, blow-drying my hair for 45 seconds and as fast as I can, applying miniscule amounts of make-up.
7:52 a.m.: DadJovi stumbles out of the bedroom, still trying to recover from his marathon yesterday. Him: Good morning, E. Her: GO AWAY DADDY! Don’t look at me! Him (to me): She’s all yours.
7:55 a.m.: Me: OK, it’s time to get down from your chair. Let’s get dressed. Her: Nooooooo! (noticing a trend here?) Me: Do you want to help me pick out your clothes? (That usually peaks her interest). Her: No! No get dressed. No go to school. Me: Well, your other option is to stay home alone. Her: Noooo! I want to go to school!
Now that we got that settled, I come out with her clothes — a pair of pants I’m not sure still fit and a shirt that sort of matches it but one that I know in the past she hasn’t completely rejected. I take attempt 1 at getting her dressed. She takes one look at me and runs into her tent to hide.
The clock’s ticking, so I go out to the kitchen to finish making lunches. As I get the bread out, I realize there’s only enough to make sandwiches for two of us. Guess who’s out of luck?
8:05 a.m.: I finish making lunches and go try again to get her dressed. I succeed in getting the pants and socks on her, but she’s refusing to take off her pajama shirt. And I also realize the pants are way too short — too long to be capris, too short to be pants. Needless to say, she decides she LOVES them and they’re not coming off. I decide I don’t care. It’s not worth the extra battle.
8:17 a.m.: After much cajoling, she’s finally dressed. Me: Let’s go brush our teeth. Her: No! I just brushed them yesterday. Me: Good point, but I see kiwi seeds in your teeth. Her: Fine.
And never one to let a skirmish be surrendered, she only brushes about 6 teeth — the ones she thinks the seeds are in. Again, I pick my battles and move on.
8:25 a.m.: Jacket time. I figure this will be easy because she loves her raincoat and it’s supposed to rain today. I didn’t count on the fact that she’d also want to wear her Dora knit cap — in 65-degree weather with highs in the upper 70s projected. I say no. She starts to cry. I ignore the crocodile tears and load up the car.
8:34 a.m.: Finally out the door but the tears are still flowing over the Dora hat.
8:37 a.m.: Arrive at school, which normally cheers her up as soon as we pull up to the front door. Today, she clings to me like a baby koala bear, with a death-grip around my neck. We get inside and there’s no way she’s playing with her friends. Finally, God bless her, the teacher’s assistant asks E. if she wants to help her go get a bucket of ice (why they need this bucket, I have no idea. It may have been a cheap ploy to distract E but it totally worked)
8:43 a.m.: I sneak out of the school, leaving her tantrums in much more capable hands, and take a big sigh. I’m exhausted.
So, how was your morning?