OK, let's back it up a few hours before our morning walk. At precisely 4:11am (I know because I had to hunt for my glasses on the dresser and then squint at the digital clock to see the time), two men came to my bed. Sounds good so far, right?
Except that as soon as I looked over the 400-threadcount sheets at them, they asked me to make them a waffle. With syrup. I actually had to say out loud: Are you freaking kidding me?!?! To which they blinked and scratched their heads. Yes, waffles please. With syrup. I went back to bed. Jumping and crying ensued from the men standing at the foot of my bed. I worried about the neighbor in the apartment downstairs calling the police (well, not really, but I should).
Which is how I found myself, then at about 4:15am, dropping two hockey puck-like frozen round waffles into our toaster. Ian and his 2-year-old brother, Julian, were actually sitting at the table, quiet, hands folded in front of them, waiting for their waffles. As I stood like a Denny's night shift waitress over the toaster, I thought to myself: I don't get paid enough for this job.
Between waffle time, and 8:15am when we left for school, Ian, Julian and I slept a collective 17 minutes piled on top of each other in our queen-size bed, in a game I like to call "Who Can Sleep Closer To Mommy." My husband, who is wiser than I, abandoned ship immediately when the waffle-eaters appeared in our room. He spent the rest of the night tossing on the foam mattress of an Ikea toddler bed and probably slept another 15 minutes himself.
So when we left for school, I was not feeling very chatty. We start out, it's only about 20 degrees in Hoboken this morning, Ian and I are bundled from head to toe, hands included. But despite the affront to my beauty sleep, I'm feeling generous. I hold my gloved paw out to his.
"Ian, would you like to hold my hand?"
"No, thanks."
That's how these nights always end, isn't it? No matter how old they are. No, thanks.
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