I know you’re two. I know I was trying to finish a blog post, and I know you were hungry.
Please, son, and I am begging here, please don’t decide to make your own breakfast by getting a clean bowl out of the dishwasher, getting the cereal out of the cupboard, and pouring the entire box in (on, around, over, etc.) the bowl. I know, it could have been much worse, especially if the water pitcher hadn’t been blocking the half-empty gallon of milk, but it’s still a mess, and I will still be vacuuming that spot several times in the next few days, trying to suck up all the cereal and marshmallow dust before it gets tracked through the rest of the carpet. Or sticks to my socks.
I’m not unwilling to work with you, either. In the future, when you wake up cranky at 6:15 AM and cry for nearly an hour just because you’re still tired, I’ll try very hard to be sympathetic. I’ll still rock you and cuddle you and attempt to quiet your sobs. I’ll even save my post and work on it later, as long as my undivided attention will help to calm you down. It can’t just be wishful thinking on my part. You have to help.
Thanks, Son! I love you! (Even when you wake up too early, refuse to take naps and walk around cranky allfreakingdaylong.)