"It's morning in America"

I usually get up sometime between 5:30 and 7:30, depending on all kinds of factors usually relating to the previous night. However, I almost never get into work - which is only a 50-minute drive - much before 10:00. This is often because the morning belongs to the next generation.



For example, this morning I got up at 5:38 and got into work at 9:53. Thursday is garbage day, which is a very big deal for a family of five. Garbage out. Recyclables sorted and set out. Two gigantic bottles of water-and-vitamins for the guinea pigs, bowl-washing followed by a bowl of water and a bowl of food for the dogs. "Chicken Soup for the Dog-Lover's Soul". That's not satire - they actually eat a dogfood by that name. Finally, a bit of internetting before the last bunch of tasks. Working on an important email for a colleague. Then come the footsteps...



Slow footsteps on creaking stairs, accompanies by lowgrade groans, almost in time to the footsteps. It didn't take long to figure out. Even before he could see me:



"Daddddddy? Can you lie down with me?"



Ian. He was afraid of monsters, and for that reason, wanted me to lie down with hime. I told him I'd join him as soon as I finished the email.



Which was not soon enough. Within a minute or two, he was back, with new developments:



1. He had sneezed.



2. He wanted something to eat.



This meant there was now more to the equation than simply going back to sleep.



I started scrambling for a kleenex, when he told me that he had already taken care of the sneeze.



I finished my email, went upstairs with him (the office is in the basement), and went through the standard ritual:



"What would you like to eat?"



What have you got?



Cereal-and-milk, peanut butter and jelly, fruit, crackers...



As usual, the menu wasn't quite what he had in mind.



After a pause, however, he announced: "I want you to feed me chocolate cereal and milk."



Feed means feed. We have many feedings. I take it as a sign that someone feels a bit marginalized by Daniel's arrival in the world, and reinforcement of the invasion by Madeleine. So we take his little descent into infantilization rather often. I figure he'll grow out of it faster if he knows he has the choice.



Chocolate cereal - some crunchy hippy brand I've never heard of before - with rice milk. Plain ricemilk, not vanilla, since that would be overkill, on top of all that chocolate. Ian practically danced when he saw he was getting the new stuff, but after I had already poured it, he got around to telling me that Mommy would be mad that we didn't finish the Koala Crisp (also hippy) chocolate cereal first, buried somewhere in the cabinet where I wouldn't normally go out of my way to look.

So "feed" it is.

Other days he'll find me up and ask me to lie down with him. Sometimes it's more specific than that: "Daddy, please may I sleep on the couch with you?" So polite. But somehow it must be the couch.

When I finally leave, waving is a big part of the departure ritual. A silent wave. If I'm about to leave and I don't see it, he'll say "Daddy?" so that I'll look and see him wave. Always back and forth, a bit slowly, solemnly, even sadly. Sometimes he'll say "Daddy, I'm waving." It's more important, perhaps, than a hug or a kiss. And always silent, aside from the call for me to take note of it.

In fact, the wave usually begins as soon as he finds out it's a work day. He'll say, "Daddy, is today a work day?"

"Yes, it's Tuesday. That means I go to work."

"Oh. Bye, Daddy." (Tonal, with feeling, and of course the wave.)

At that point, I explain that I'm not leaving for awhile - I still have to get dressed, etc., but it's never too early to wave.