In Which I Wish for a Redistribution of the Energy in My House

He explodes into my room at first light, having disturbed his sister’s slumber by jumping on her bed.  “He woke me up too early,” she complains, trailing several steps behind and pushing hair out of her eyes.

The boy has already shimmied onto my bed and is scaling my barely-awake body.  Before I’ve fully opened my eyes I’ve gotten a foot in the ribs and a headbutt to the chin.  “Can you two go make your beds?” I mutter with the hope that their absence will allow me time to wake up marginally more.

They both race out.  The girl barely makes a noise as she prances on tip-toe, but the boy has somehow perfected the art of running like he weights ten times more than he actually does.  It shakes the floor.  I don’t know how it doesn’t hurt his chubby feet to travel this way all day long.

If I wanted them to make their beds quickly it would take an hour.  Since this time I desire rest and a sliver more solitude they are back in under a minute.  We snuggle for a moment and then I send them off with the injunction to get dressed.  Each bounces back at least three more times with concerns ranging from “Is this on the right way?” to “There’s toothpaste all over the bathroom.”

Ten more minutes of negotiation result in mostly dressed children, a semi-sentient mommy and breakfast on the table.  And then begins the morning in earnest, wherein the boy only stops running for food and when he bodily slams into something.  Which is frighteningly often, and which surely would convince any other child to stop running if only for a moment.

Hours later he slows enough to sit quietly and read a book on the couch, his hip wedged solidly into mine.  His body is still but his tongue races on, describing each illustration in intricate detail while I smile and nod and rub his curly head.  “Stop it mom!” he says, and pulls himself away.  “I don’t like that!”

This makes only the 547th time thus far that he’s said issued an emphatic “NO” to something I’ve asked, and I have to wonder distractedly if I’d have been a better mother had I acquired these children a decade (or more) earlier in life.

I would have had less sense but more energy.  Less patience but more fun.  Less money but more marriage.  I was raised to think that later was far superior to earlier motherhood.  After reproducing as a cranky old woman, I’m not sure I’ll teach my kids the same thing.