Up at 6:30 in the morning. Well, up may be a relative term. I wasn’t down. Monosyllabic and reluctantly mobile.
I was awake because I had to move my children’s soccer uniform from the washing machine into the dryer. You see, it was the first soccer game of the year. I scrambled eggs, burned some toast, grunted upstairs, woke the kids, poured juice, led the prayer, and moderated an argument about whether the 7 year old boy was clanking his fork against his plate specifically to annoy his older sister or just because he likes clanging things.
“I’m sure that annoying you is just an added benefit,” I assured her.
“Dad, is that sarcasm?” asked the five year old who asks that question about six times a day.
The 12 year old rolled her eyes and assured her it is most definitely sarcasm because nobody in the world clangs their fork like… She thought about continuing her sentence but she saw my “you don’t want to continue that sentence” stare and she stopped. If this were afternoon she might’ve received only a mild clearing of the throat but at seven a.m. I tend to go right to the stares of promised doom. I’m a much better parent in the afternoon.
The dryer beeped and I grabbed the uniforms out quickly because the little ones don’t like their uniforms extra crispy. One time my seven year old put on a shirt that was still a little hot from the dryer and he stopped, dropped, and rolled across the living room floor while blowing on his sleeves. So I pulled their uniforms out to cool down to avoid theatrics. The five year old girl and the boy raced in from the kitchen having successfully thrown about 70 percent of their breakfast near their mouth and another 25 percent on the floor. I still don’t know where the other five percent goes.
They’re a little excitable. They were born with internal hippety-hops.