Today has been a fairly typical day. I wake up to Isaac’s sweet voice on my right, going “broom broom BROOM!” I crack an eyelid, wondering as I do every morning in our blacked-out room, to what time they let me sleep. Isaac is propped up on a pillow driving a monster truck.
A few moments later, Ian animates and sits up with an enthusiastic “Good morning, mom!”, followed by “Is baby making more milk?” He stopped breast-feeding at about two and a half, rather reluctantly, due to my first trimester discomfort and rapidly diminishing milk supply. I explained that my body stopped making milk for a little while and was busy building a baby brother, but when baby comes out, my body will make lots more milk. Since then, he’s been my milk sentry, making sure baby doesn’t leave his post at the milk churn.
Ian next inquired, “Where’s my flashlight?” I ease open a second eyelid and grunt into a sitting position. I look down to the floor and see the flashlight among some other toys. “It’s on the floor, being guarded by the Christmas dog.” Ian peers down, giggling, “Well, that’s kinda really funny”, retrieves his torch and sets off to scare some monsters.
I turn the fans off and the lights on and start gathering the day’s clothes. Isaac swings open a dresser door, says “bye bye” and closes himself up as best as he can. The glazed-over red-faced expression heralds my next duty.
Ian drags his potty to its position in front of the TV. I put on GPB, set the sleep timer and head off to make breakfast. I make a somewhat Mickey Mouse configuration of waffles and sausage and in the midst of peanut butter-ing, I hear Isaac cry. I mentally triage the situation and determine it’s not a pain cry, but more one of annoyance. Ian’s usually pretty well locked-in when the TV goes on, so chances are it was self-inflicted. I keep spreading. He keeps crying. I set down the knife and head toward the bawling. Ian shuffles out of the bedroom, bound at the ankles by his pants, to tell me “Igick is crying.” That’s because “Igick” is trapped in the bathroom, not yet able to operate a door handle. Unlike his older brother who was sitting two feet away and able to muster the effort to waddle all the way to the living room, but not….oh, nevermind. I free Isaac and offer my sympathy.
Ian announces his potty accomplishments, and I take them to be flushed. As I swirl the pot with soapy water, I ponder with disgusted amusement the irony and frequency with which I find myself performing tasks like this with PEANUT BUTTER ON MY FINGERS. Isaac decides my sympathy job was lame and starts his ‘stage cry’. While scrutinizing the soapy pot, I verbalize more sympathy. Not good enough. Isaac whirls me around by my pants leg so I can also see on his face the utter agony and affliction he has suffered. I properly comfort him and shoo them to the breakfast table. Ian sees the glorious waffles and celebrates, “Oh fank you, mom!” I get two sippy cups of milk poured while Ian is asking for his waffle to be cut into smaller pieces. I deliver the milk and start to cutting, when I notice Isaac’s food has dematerialized. How does he do that?!
Later at lunch time, the boys plop down at their table. As I’m pouring drinks, I hear Ian launch into his speed prayer. It goes something like “Dear God, fank you for God, please bless evy-one. [Arms fling out to perform a giant clap]. AA-MEN!” I feel a surge of pride that my little guy, who’d often rather bypass the ritual, remembered the blessing all on his own. Mid-meal, Ian stands up, walks around the table and dutifully slurps applesauce off of his brother’s shirt, then returns to his seat.
I take the opportunity to talk about tomorrow being Thanksgiving. I talk about the time with family and friends, the delicious meal and how we will think about all the things we are thankful for. I tell them how thankful I am for my sweet boys, their fantastic daddy and the health and happiness God has blessed us with. I tell them I am thankful that Grammy is feeling better from her appendix surgery, I express my gratitude for the beautiful weather, good friends and that all our needs are met. I turn to Ian and ask what he is thankful for. “Straws!” Well, he does make a good point.