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Mornings in my house can be chaotic no matter how early I get up or how much advanced planning I try to do.

Find me a mom who doesn't act a little crazy in the morning. Find me a child that doesn't act crazier!

A typical morning in my house includes such sentiments as, "Mom, I'm not done sleeping" or "I can't find pants to match this shirt." My daughter honestly thinks I don't realize that she took pants out of the dirty clothes basket? "We have to go shopping, I don't have anything to wear!" I guess that trip to the mall last weekend was a figment of my imagination.

"These shoes hurt my feet." "Can I be a lunch box?" "I want Starbucks." Yes, I admit I started that one. 

Photo Credit © Frenk And Danielle Kaufmann | Dreamstime.com

Yesterday, my children celebrated "READ ACROSS AMERICA" at school.  My daughter hatched Horton out of an egg in her kindergarten class.  My son and the other fifth graders treated parents and schoolmates to a wax museum exhibit.  The children all dressed as characters from their favorite books. They posed within scenes they created themselves as their guests filed through.  Who knew fifth graders could be so still!

In the spirit of the day, my daughter and I made plans to read together before bed.  Reading with my daughter before bed is actually a nightly occurrence in our home, however she has recently taken a shine to doing so in my bed rather than hers.  My son inevitably makes his way to our "big bed party" before heading off to his own room to read independently.

My daughter's literary fare was to be the final chapters of a book from the Magic Tree House series.  But Jack and Annie had to remain in their state of Antarctic suspension until I finished helping my son with his homework.  To buy me some time, my husband took our daughter upstairs to coax her into her pajamas before engaging in a spirited game of "puppy".  When he returned to the kitchen after about 15 minutes, my son and I had finished with the homework.  My husband informed me that our daughter was in her pajamas and waiting for me in our bed.

I grabbed the intended Eve of the Emperor Penguin along with my son's massive copy of The Hobbit and proceeded up the stairs.  I smiled as I heard a little giggle from a bedroom above and behind me as I ascended.  I flipped on the overhead light as I made my way down the hallway toward my bedroom.  As I passed my son's room, I tossed the massive Hobbit onto my son's bed.  OK, maybe it was more of a hurl.  To my surprise, the jumble of bed covers let out a loud howl.  Wanting to play a trick on me, my mischievous daughter was hiding in my son's bed, waiting for me to come up the stairs.  Waiting in the bed upon which I had just hurled a giant copy of the Hobbit.

As I collected my sobbing daughter in my arms, a slew of irrational reactions washed over me.  I was irritated with my husband for telling me she was in our bed.  She was not in our bed at all. I was annoyed that my son was reading the Hobbit. He already read the Hobbit two summers ago; why did he need to read it again?  I was aggravated that the copy of the Hobbit was so large and heavy.  Someone could get hurt by that thing!  I looked down at my daughter's face hoping to find it unmarred by the incident, only to discover a large, red stripe developing down the middle of her forehead.  Like a stripe on a skunk.  A red stripe down the center of my little girl's forehead, put there by me.

And then that horrifying thing that happens to me when I am overwhelmed happened.   I started to laugh.  Those close to me will not be surprised by this admission.  I have been known to experience bouts of giggling during wakes and funerals. Totally inappropriate, I realize.  As a child, I had to exercise excruciating self control to hold back laughter while being reprimanded by my parents and teachers.  Not that there were many occasions for that, mind you.  Suffice to say, refraining from laughing at inappropriate moments has been a lifelong struggle for me.  Dispensing nervous energy in this fashion has done me no favors over the years I assure you; I wish I could stop.

Hearing the chaos, my son came bounding up the stairs.  He entered his room and saw me holding his sister and laughing silently.  Always one to join in the fun, he started laughing and asked innocently, "What are you guys doing in my room and what's so funny?"  I shot him a very meaningful look that clearly conveyed the information that he should not mention the laughing, that the situation is not funny and that his sister is not to know that there is any laughing going on.  Being a boy, he had no idea why I was making faces at him.  He asked again, "What's so funny mom?"

My daughter looked up at me with glistening brown eyes, hurt and betrayed.  "Are you LAUGHING at me?" she asked.

I looked earnestly into her eyes and said "No sweetie, I am not laughing at you.  Of COURSE I am not laughing at you.  I LOVE you.  Are you OK?  I am so, so, so very sorry that I hurt you.  I didn't know you were in the bed.  Daddy told me you were in my bed so I didn't know you were in this one."

As my son asked what happened, my daughter turned to him, revealing her now purple skunk stripe.  My son's eyes widened, his smile dropped and he wisely turned away and ran back down the stairs.  "Don't leave me!" I yelled inside my head, feeling the giggles erupt again.

"This is all Dad's fault!" wailed my daughter.  Aha!  My thought exactly.

"No sweetie, it's not Dad's fault, it was just a terrible accident.  Dad didn't know you were in here either. I shouldn't have thrown the book.  That is not the way to treat a book and I should not have thrown it.  I am really sorry I hurt you."

"Why is the book so big and heavy anyway," she asked.  "This book is stupid and mean."  Aha!

"Oh, the book is not stupid and mean; Mommy just made a bad mistake and you got hurt because of it.  The book is actually a really good book and someday you will enjoy reading it."

"I will never, ever read that big, mean book," she scowled.

My son, clearly more sane than I in the moment, hurried back up the stairs with a bag of ice.  He entered his room, put the ice on his little sister's head and said, "I am so sorry.   This is all my fault."

"Honey, this is in no way your fault," I said, feeling more than a bit guilty.

"No mum, it is," he stated emphatically.  "If I didn't want to read the Hobbit again, the book would not have even been out.  I already read it.  I am so sorry."  Boy, the apples really did fall right under the tree, didn't they.

Before I could tell my son how wrong he was, my daughter looked at him and matter-of-factly stated, "I forgive you."  She popped off of my lap and gave him a big hug.

He hugged her back.  Guiding her toward the door, his next words reached back to me.  "Let's just go to the big bed and put this whole mess behind us.  Jack and Annie are waiting."

Humbled, I followed.  My son will be a fine parent some day.  As for me, I still need some work.

Photo Credit © Anna Karwowska | Dreamstime.com

Though a joyful time of year on many levels, the few days preceding Christmas inevitably prove to be harried and exhausting times for many parents.  True to form, I personally spent the three days leading up to Christmas Eve doing last minute shopping until the mall closed at midnight only to return home wired; then baking and wrapping gifts until 2 or 3 in the morning.  Christmas Eve was spent cooking and serving dinner with a mad rush afterward to an annual Holiday party.  Santa made his appearance to the delight of all, and we rolled back down the driveway somewhere in the vicinity of 11 p.m.  With the kids finally asleep and my husband sent off to bed after several attempts to "help" me, I proceeded to "clean" for Santa and take care of last minute preparations until about 2 a.m.

Following a full day of opening presents, assembling toys and cooking, when Christmas night had finally arrived and the children had been put to bed, I was more than ready for some sleep.  Finally, snuggled deliciously in my bed, I shut my eyes only to feel them spring open again at the sound of my daughter's panic stricken voice bellowing from the end of the hallway.  With a mad dash to her room, I arrived just in time to see her toss her cookies.  Clearly, she had not seen the sign I carry inside my head:
She didn't even need to be able to read to get this one.  And so, the evening continued with me cleaning up, settling her little self back down, settling my son back down after he woke to see what all the excitement was about and finally settling myself back down as well.  Not back to my own bed, mind you, but curled up like a pill bug at the bottom of my daughter's twin bed.  It just seemed easier to grab a few winks that way and be handy in case she forgot to remember the sign again.

The next morning, I awoke to the distinctive, nostril piercing smell of burned toast.  And weak coffee.  And something else familiar that I couldn't put my finger on.  I willed my eyes open again as I also identified the distinctive snore of my husband from down the hall.  Husband in bed, mother in bed, food cooking; it all registered.  Breakfast in bed.  I do not like breakfast in bed.

My children have tried to give me breakfast in bed several times before.  In the past, my husband has been able to direct them to simple fare most unlikely to cause any problems such as custard style yogurt, grapes, coffee in a travel mug and juice in a sippy cup.  All are technically fine, but I still passionately dislike the idea of food in my bedroom.  I distain the thought of the kids using appliances, using knives, spilling whatever on the carpet up the stairs and the inevitable item that has rolled off the tray to remain undiscovered for weeks.  I know my misgivings should be overshadowed by the spirit of the gesture, but I really do struggle with the entire idea.  

When I asked others about their feelings on the subject, I had mixed results.  I sifted guiltily through many e-mails from disgruntled mommies who felt slighted because their kids had never made them breakfast in bed.  Those lucky mommies don't know how good they have it, I lamented.   In several cases I was not-so-subtly told to lighten up.

One mother wrote to me and shared a story about how her daughter had prepared a healthy bowl of cereal in milk, clearly at least a half hour before it was eaten.  Although the milk had started to sour, this mother embraced the gesture in the spirit in which it was intended, and recognized that her daughter enjoyed doing something nice for her mom and clearly felt very grown up for doing so.  I must point out, however that no appliances or cutlery were used in the making of that breakfast!

Don't get me wrong, I am not saying that the genuine gift of a loving gesture toward a parent should be dismissed so easily.  However, in the case of breakfast in bed, I am not sure that the motivation behind the gesture is always so pure.  I suspect that at least sometimes, the children involved in these meals may have been bored, tired of waiting for their own food, or worse privy to what was going on behind closed doors.  In any case, the meal preparation and delivery may very well have been an act of passive aggressive rebellion by unsupervised children.  Hungry, unsupervised children.

To my delight, I received more than one story about parents who had received meals in bed after they had foolishly attempted to steal a few private moments together.  There was one couple, parents to four children and a Labrador retriever, who were forced to enjoy their breakfast in bed without letting their generous darlings know that they were wearing only their birthday suits under the covers.  An adult child rang in with a story about how she and her brother made their parents "dinner in bed" after their parents locked themselves in their bedroom for a "private meeting".  That meal was served, outside the door, with martinis included.  Perhaps I could overlook my compulsions if a martini were included, although I am not convinced.

My favorite response to my inquiry was from Jerry, father to three and grandfather to nine.  Jerry wrote, "Jayne, the thought is wonderful, but the results are often disastrous, ranging from crumbs in the bed to a nightmare in the kitchen.  I believe it should not be attempted by anyone under the age of 13 for girls . . . and 15 for boys."   

I then asked Jerry about how to convey his sentiments to children without seeming ungracious.  Ever-wise, Jerry responded, "Jayne, I would explain that there are other (and better) ways of expressing this affection."  While recognizing that when children "help" the "help" actually given often causes more work for the parent, Jerry suggested guiding the children toward other tasks, such as helping dad with the car, helping mom set the dinner table, working in the yard, etc.  

I wish I had Jerry's advice tucked in my head as I sloughed through my daughter's blankets, tripped over the overturned (yet thankfully still clean) vomit receptacle that had landed on the floor and proceeded down the stairs.  I entered the kitchen with a forced calm I did not know I could possess knowing that breakfast was being prepared while my husband and I both slept.  And there, on the kitchen counter, sat the dreaded tray, fully loaded.  One, unfortunate orange had clearly been hacked in half with a butter knife.

"We are not allowed to use the other knives so we are sorry about the funny shapes," I was told. I found this amusing given that the rule about not using the toaster oven seemed to have slipped their mind as I looked at the charred, buttered bread on the plate.  Believing it unnecessary, I had never actually given my children a rule about not using the coffee maker or coffee bean grinder, so it just let that go.  And then, there was the matter of that familiar yet unidentifiable smell.

"What is all this?" I asked my excited, jumping little friends.  

"Mom, you weren't supposed to come downstairs yet.  This is supposed to be breakfast in bed.  You need to get back upstairs right now," they yelped.  

After convincing them that I would much prefer to sit at the table with one of them on each side of me while I enjoyed their meal, we all settled in.  They waited expectantly as I raised the coffee cup to my lips and took the first sip.  Apparently my surprise did not register on my face as I swallowed.

"Can you make out the secret ingredient?" my son asked me with pride.  "It's cinnamon!" he exclaimed. 

"Oh really," I thought, "I don't think so."  "MMMMMMMMMMMMM," I said to him through my forced, blissful smile.  It was when I averted my eyes from his that I noticed the spice drawer had been pulled out, just enough to reveal where the confusion had occurred.   The cinnamon and the Old Bay Seasoning sat innocently side by side in the drawer, in similar containers.

"We know you have been working really hard and staying up really late to make everything special, so we wanted to do something special for you," they blurted earnestly, hugging me.  "Do you love it?" they asked me from their little upturned faces.  

With a change of enthusiasm to rival those of George Bailey, the Grinch and Ebenezer Scrooge I replied, "Every bite," and I even meant it. 

Having a son with interests and abilities beyond his years has always provided a source of great amusement in my home.  Despite wisdom to the contrary, my husband and I have often mused about our younger daughter's interests and abilities while comparing her progress to that of her brother at the same age.  I am aware that we have broken many parenting rules by doing so, however since we only have our son to use as a point of reference, we have found the comparisons to be unavoidable.   

While my son has enjoyed an almost obsessive passion for science from a very early age, my daughter has a more age-appropriate interest in the subject.  So, in the wake of her fourth birthday, we were delighted and intrigued by her request for a "real" guitar.  The request for something musical did not surprise us very much, since she seems unable to be in the general vicinity of a tempo without shaking her little booty, waving her hands in the air and bobbing her head to the beat.  She also sings constantly, and regularly turns everyday objects into instruments.  But a guitar is such a specific request!  Clearly, it was calling out to her.  The girl needed a guitar.   

My fabulous mother-in-law took on the project of locating a beautiful guitar for my daughter, and packaged it up to arrive just prior to her birthday.  When the big day arrived, I proudly presented the large, polygon-of-a-box to the birthday girl.  She tore the wrapping paper off with enthusiasm, and squealed with delight when the guitar was revealed.  She danced around the room, strumming and hopping and dancing away.  I beamed at her and marveled at her joy, and basked in the promise of her apparent love of the instrument.  I tried not to think about how difficult it is to earn a living as a musician, and took hopeful comfort that her scientist brother will likely be able to support her.

Suddenly, she stopped.  She looked around on the ground, inside the box, and behind the couch.  "Where is the case?" she asked.

I gently pressed her to ask her question again.

"The case, where is the case for the guitar?" she demanded, clearly launching into a panic.

Feeling the buzz of her previous joy wearing off, I explained to her that the gift did not come with a case, but that she did have the nice polygon-of-a-box to store her guitar in.   

"What!" she exclaimed, as she flopped herself down on the floor in disappointment.  "I can't believe there is no case.  This is terrible, just terrible!" she proclaimed with all the drama she could muster.

I again tried to appease her, by explaining that the case was not important, that the guitar was beautiful and that she would enjoy playing it for a long, long time.

"Mum, without the case, the guitar is useless.  How am I supposed to make any money without the case?" she asked me, clearly irritated at my inability to see such an obvious problem.

But I didn't understand.  I was confused, and I must have looked that way, because moments later, I received astute clarification.   

"Mum, when I have gone into Boston on the train with Grandpa, everyone plays their guitars with the case on the ground.  People throw MONEY into the CASE!  If I have no CASE, I will not make any MONEY, and that was the whole reason I wanted the GUITAR in the first place!" she declared, as if it were the most reasonable of explanations and as if I were the most stupid woman in the world.

As I broke into a laugh and collected my disgruntled daughter in my arms, I could not help but feel proud of my little budding entrepreneur.  With her attitude and a bit of luck it will be kindergarten and then business school for her, and early retirement for me!

Chic Galleria © Xavier Gallego Morell | Dreamstime.com