Routine

Sometimes, when I'm feeling especially resentful of being a parent and really feel like I hate my life, I feel consumed by the mindnumbing routine of my days. I miss and long for the days when I'd sleep til noon, go get lunch where the whim threw me, hang out with friends, maybe go to a bar, maybe not; take time to study or something equally unlikely.

Parenting is routine. Sure, she may decide to take off her diaper and smear a Poop Pollack on her bedroom wall again, and that might break up the day, but really, every day is achingly the same. I feel like I'm trapped in Groundhog Day but I don't even get the benefit of Bill Murray's humor.

Every morning, I wake up to a cheerful little voice babbling in the bedroom. I ignore it for another 15 minutes before she becomes irate, screaming and kicking the wall, and I come in to get her out of bed. She has thrown all the blankets and stuffed animals and Sophie out of her bed, and upon coming into the room, she points at the floor as though to let me know, "NOW look what you made me do."

I toss the blankets and stuffed animals and Sophie back into the crib and before she can argue this turn of events and toss them out again, I pluck her out and change her diaper, which is soaked, along with her pajamas, because this child is a pee machine. She screams and thrashes because it's cold and I have to do a move that is not unlike a full nelson as I wrangle the first Huggies of the day on her. I usually get kicked in the face at least once, usually twice. And she laughs. Then I dress her as we go through the different clothing items and body parts. She has them down at this point. "HAM? (Hand) SOCK! CHOOS? (No shoes, kiddo.) SHIRT!"

Then I hold her for a minute and she hugs me. Her tiny little body melts into mine and she pats on my back with her tiny little nugget hands. She gives me a kiss on the check, and I stand and I savor my "good morning" from my sweet little girl. I hug her back and squeeze her little body into mine until she spies her goldfish, Anna Nicole Fish, and we feed Fish her breakfast and then Punk wags her tiny little finger at it and sternly tells it, "EAT YOUR FOOD, YOU FISH." (It's really just a series of angry sounding vocalizations, but that's the sentiment.)

Before the fish food can even sink, she's asking for breakfast. "BITE? BITE? JUICE? BITE?" I set up her little chair and table in the living room and I turn on Handy Manny on channel 172 (Disney Channel, I think... I don't even know, I can turn on Channel 172 without even being conscious anymore). I get her juice (V8 Fruit Fusions, because it's one of the few ways I can pile vegetables into her), which I pour into her sippy the night before, and I break up a Nutri-Grain bar into four pieces and put it in a bowl, and I deliver them to her to she can watch her morning TV, eating her breakfast and drinking her juice, as I get around for the day. I prop up the Great Wall of Baby to corral her in to the living room and I quickly dash to my bedroom, because if she realizes that I've left the room she will tear down door frames to follow me.

I'm not a morning person. Anyone who has ever lived, crashed, worked, or had one night stands with me can easily attest to it. (I'm kidding about the one night stands. No, really.) So the routine has become burned into my mind and my subconscious to the point that I really have gone through it with my eyes closed. The day continues at a similar pace of routine and predictability. And a lot of the time I really miss the chaos that was once my child-free life.

But then there's always that first hug of the morning. That tiny little body melting into me, the little hands gripping my back, a soft little breath on my neck. That's the point when I realize I don't really miss it. No. This is good, too.