You know what’s fun (and for “fun,” you should substitute absolutely any other word)?
Having a kid who is as crabby as I am in the morning.
Grace takes after her father. They both have the uncanny ability to brain immediately after waking (shut up, “brain” is too a verb), a talent that eludes me. It seems that Sam has inherited my level of functionality. He does not (yet) tackle the problem with gallons of caffeine, as I do. On a good morning, he simply stays in bed until he feels capable of facing the day. On a bad day, though.
Today Grace decided, almost immediately on waking, to play with her Playmobil family. She’s been setting up her dollhouse for them.
“Mom, will you play with me?”
“After I drink my coffee,” I tell her, guilt eating at my stomach lining. (Okay, guilt and strong black coffee.)
So she plays by herself until Sam stumbles out of the bedroom, yawning (he’s been awake for at least 20 minutes at this point), and collapses into a chair.
“Sam!” Her bright eyes turn to him like he is her favorite person on earth–which he is. “Will you play with me?”
“Ugh, Gracie. I don’t want to play.”
And just like that, everyone’s morning goes to shit.
And because I recognize in him my own failing, I have to work extra hard to keep from exploding with anger at him. Why can’t he just be nice to her? I know the answer, but I want him to hold it together in the morning, the way I often cannot.