“Shh. Mommy’s sleeping”, he tells the boy. My baby. Although I must stop calling him that. “Big” he answers when I ask if he’s big or small, even though I am always expecting him to choose the 2nd option.
“Leave mommy alone. She wants to sleep.” But the footsteps are at my door. The baritone voice far into the kitchen, unable to be more than a voice. The knocking follows. The lightest of knocking, careful to be quiet as if that will honor his father’s request.
He’s learned to open doors now. It happened some weeks back. I have only myself to blame, teaching him as I did. But worries of house fires and rooms and closed doors and a toddler and knowing it was the right thing to do won out. Not but a moment passes before the door opens now, after weeks of telling to turn AND push.
“Mommy! Mommy? Mommy.” He makes his way around the island that is the king bed. “Mommy!” He sees me.
“Hi, baby”” I say never able to maintain the facade of sleep around him.
“Breakfast” he states almost as a question, a plea. I know if I say nothing his little hand will extend, pushing under my covers as he insists “joo, joo, joo”, not sure why he can’t grasp the “y” sound for some words while ‘yogurt’ and ‘york’ come easily.
“Okay, okay, okay!” He runs off. But not fast. He knows I am wily and likely to detour to the bathroom or the laundry or the closet. He knows to keep close, I his flock, to ensure I follow him. After all it is morning. After all I am momma. He is baby. And breakfast is coming.