Some people get up early by choice.
Take my parents, for instance… and Hubs’ parents, too. The four of them are all early risers, and by 6:00, they’ve already showered, fried bacon, sipped coffee, and been outside, watering things and weeding things and pretending that they are farmers on small city plots of land.
Then there’s the guy who makes the Dunkin’ Donuts. I know he gets up early, because I’ve seen his commercials, where his alarm goes off at oh-dark-thirty, and he stumbles out of bed, mumbling, “Gotta go make the donuts.” It’s mornings like those when he just needs to put a little Dolly Parton on the iPod, because there isn’t a better morning song than 9 to 5. Sometimes you just have to tumble out of bed, stumble to the kitchen and pour yourself a cup of ambition.
There are also farmers. For some reason, it’s in the farming handbook of conduct that Thou Shalt Arise Early and Go Forth and Plant. Frankly, I think it’s just Mr. Farmer’s strong desire to hurry and meet back up with his tractor so that he can drive it around.
Hubs and I are none of those people. We aren’t our parents. We’ve never owned a donut shop. We don’t farm, because I have a hard enough time keeping houseplants alive, and WHAT IF THE CORN INDUSTRY WAS RELYING UPON ME TO KEEP THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF CORNSTALKS ALIVE? I would buckle under the pressure and probably forget to use my tractor to pull the sprinklers into place, and that would be the end of all things corn at my plot of land.
What Hubs and I DO HAVE, though, is Thing 2. Thing 2’s internal clock is set to 5:15. It’s dark outside. Like MIDDLE OF THE STINKING NIGHT kind of dark at 5:15, and yet… STILL! Still he pops his eyeballs open, stands up in his crib, and just hollers for the grownups in his life to rescue him from behind bars. By 5:15, that baby is ready for his cup of ambition.
This morning, when he began hollering at 5:00 (FIVE O’CLOCK, PEOPLE! FIVE O’CLOCK!), Hubs moaned, “He’s getting earlier and earlier!” I had just been yanked out of my REM sleep, where I was very busy shopping for women’s clothing in a store where all of the clothing was as small as a size 2T. I kept insisting to the sales lady that my baby could wear these shirts and pants, and she kept insisting that they were women’s clothing, and to just try something on already! My brilliant, foggy-brained plan was to just LEAVE THING 2 IN HIS CRIB AND HOPE FOR THE BEST.
The best turned out to be a gentle THUNK on the hardwood floor in Thing 2’s bedroom, which was immediately followed by his bedroom door swinging open and the patter of a set of small feet racing in footed pajamas.
And then suddenly, there he was, running into our room and yelling, “HI!!”
It was exactly like a Navy SEAL dropping out of a helicopter under the cover of darkness and surprising folks.
What I’m trying to say is this: I think we have just begun the days of having a Free Range Toddler in the house.
We might just as well buy a donut shop.