When I hear it, I plunk my feet on the floor and walk up the stairs. My chest rises and falls with every inhale, exhale. The voice on the monitor is no longer a baby.
First words turn into first thing in the morning activities. “Honeycombs,” “juice,” “Barney.” One morning he actually said, “pasta.” This boy is hungry for words. He is full of life.
When I say “book” to distract him while I change his diaper, he happily obliges. He looks at Elmo and opens the tabs to see who’s hiding behind the door, under the bed, in the closet. There’s lots of places to look in this book.
It is too late before I realize there’s a picture of a cookie on the next page. When he sees it, I hear the word clear as the big, blue, furry monster himself. We make it down the stairs and I start with a simple “no” but his tiny finger creeps between the cabinet where the Oreos are kept. Childproofing is not 100 percent. He can still sneak his hand part way through the crack and move it back and forth, aiming for cookies. Bang! The cabinets slams on his knuckles.
All other words melt into oblivion. Within seconds he is a blubbering mess of snot and tears, still pleading for cookies.
“Time Out.”
Reluctantly, he marches over to the chair near the window and climbs up. I think this is our earliest time out on record, clocking in at 6:45 a.m. It’s too early for cookies and too early for crying. My brain doesn’t want to believe that this amount of emotion is happening only minutes after I wake from a cold, deep sleep.
The chair cushion shifts back and forth with each twist of his torso. It falls to the rug and he is pleased with himself.
“Sorry, mommy.”
I am not sure if he is apologizing for cookies or cushion, but this has the calming effect we need.
“That’s OK bub.”
I hear laughter as he moves to the couch and begins to de-cushion it.
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