It was a long time since I wrote last, and the reason is one and one only. I have started working again. I used to have trouble understanding people who can’t figure out “the puzzle of life” – meaning that they have to get the kids to preschools and schools, get themselves to work and then leave in time to pick the kids up, and still have gotten everything done for the day. I mean, I understand that it’s tricky to solve it all, but in my eyes it’s always been about good planning and thinking ahead. When I do that I never have a problem with my daily schedule. It’s when I don’t follow what should have been done that the daily schedule goes to piddle. Well. I understand now. It is clear and bright like the African sun.
We wake up by our fantastic alarm clock, Igge Iggson, around 06.30 when he stands up in his bed and pulls the curtains of our bed away with a smile and a happy “BO!” We then desperatley take him into our bed with the hope that he will fall back asleep, but that’s never happened. I don’t know why we keep doing it. Hope of more sleep is the last thing to loose for a parent, I guess. Especially since our beloved ball of energy still wakes up 3-4 times every night. The ball of energy doesn’t seem tired at all at this hour though. He wants us to wake up just as much as he wants to play in our bed, so for another half an hour he stands up to practice falling down. He practice crawling as fast as he can with no respect for those two practically lifeless lumps of parents laying in the bed, pretending they’re not aware of what’s going on. He practices yoga, or standing on his head while he pulls a stinky fart in our faces, and then he laughs about it. When he considers it time for us to get up he stands up, reaches my husband’s glasses on the shelf above the bed and tries to put them on Vegan-Dad. Misses, of course, and picks one, two or more eyes out. Then he stretches out to my side and turns the lights on while repeating “Google google google aytssss”. (We have Google home and turn our lights on by saying: Hey Google, lights on. Now he thinks that’s what you say when you turn any light on, anywhere.)
Practising to fall. Every morning at 06.35.
I get up and take a shower. Then I get out and take over feeding The Child while Vegan-Dad jumps in the shower. I dress myself and have breakfast at the same time. While I brush my teeth, Vegan-Dad puts clothes on The Child and make him ready to go. When he’s all dressed I brush Igge’s teeth, or brush and brush – I put a toothbrush in his mouth which he bites and hold on to and sucks all the toothpaste in, then refuses to open his mouth. So that takes about 15 minutes longer than planned. I run in to the bathroom to rinse the toothbrush – mind you that I’m faster than Superman taking a leak – and when I get out The Child is gone. Once I found him sitting on the living room floor, picking every petal off a flower, having the time of his life scattering them around the house; see the featured image. However, I usually find him under the bedside table, squeezing every drop out of my L’Oréal night cream on that book I haven’t had time to start reading yet. Even though I won’t clean it up very well now, it adds another 5 minutes to our morning.
Thinks nobody will see what he’s up to if he hides under here. Well, cream-destroyer, I don’t have to see, to know!
Vegan-Dad kisses us good bye and leaves and we are about to do the same thing. I then remember that my phone is on charge or my bus pass is in the fruit bowl or something else that makes me leave the hall way. When I come back Igge has already left, since he apparently is tall enough to open doors now. For him it’s a game to try and get down the stairs before I can grab him. In this scenario I only see the immediate danger in a soon to be 15 month old “running” down marble stairs and of course he confuses my fright with anger and starts howling with tears running down his chubby cheeks.
Closing the door and ringing the door bell (on every door in our building) before you “run” down three sets of marble stairs is a must.
The comforting takes about a minute and the apologising to the neighbours takes another 2. At last, in the basement, I realise that Igge has thrown his shoes on the way, as well as his hat, and we have to go back to look for them. That adds another 5 minutes to the planned morning routine. When I take the pram out I have to put the child down. He runs away. He hides somewhere in the catacombs which builds our basement. All I have to go on to locate him is the echo of him talking to himself and occasionally giggling. Sometimes he bangs doors and yells “maaaamaaaa! Mammaaaaa!” Don’t worry, it’s a new thing he’s learnt from the preschool, he doesn’t actually want me to come. The only time you need to worry about him down in the basement is if it’s all quiet. That usually means he’s eating old leaves or munching away on an old cheese doodle or something.
We’re going the opposite direction son
Running for the bus. Which doesn’t arrive on time. It doesn’t arrive at all. Have to take another bus which takes a lot longer but it’s the best option right now. The bus driver has Vivaldi’s Four seasons on pretty loud and Igge starts head banging to the music while directing with his fingers. Igge loves to have an audience and his headbanging gets wilder and wilder and his arms are wafting so fast you could think he was actually directing Beethoven’s 5th symphony. When we get off the bus all the old ladies and young children are laughing with my son, pretending to direct the music themselves. Igge’s musical adventure has left him dizzy, sweaty and exhausted and he would rather have a nap than go to preschool. So. When we get to the preschool he turns in to an angry bird instead, refusing to let me go and from the school I can see my tram, the one I have to take to make it to work on time, leave the station.
Once again I’m late for work but happy to have an understanding boss. When I finally arrive I’m soaked in sweat, I have toothpaste, porridge and applesauce all over my clean (!) clothes and my nice coat has perfectly clear foot prints all over it. Size 23, yellow wellington boots of the brand Kavat.