Our mornings are hectic. Like, really hectic. Neither my husband nor I are really morning people, which means we’re usually both trying to avoid getting out of bed until the last possible moment. And although the kids are more than happy to be up-and-at-’em bright and early on weekend mornings, on weekday mornings—more times than not—my husband is dragging at least one of them, kicking and screaming, from their bed.
When we’re all finally up and moving, we hit the ground running in a race against the clock to get out the door at a reasonable time (read: one that gets The Bigs to school before the bell rings and us to work before lunch). The routine looks something like this:
Argue with one another about any number of inane subjects.
Argue with one another.
Cry because we hate brushing our hair.
Find socks and shoes.
Put on socks and shoes.
Put on coat.
Argue some more.
Everybody out the door.
Argue in the driveway for good measure before finally getting into the car and heading off to school and work.
The Bigs are pretty good about getting themselves dressed, brushing their teeth and hair. Obviously The Littles need a some more guidance.
The other morning I was feeding the baby her bottle and, as usual, the other three kids were jumping and crawling and yelling and bouncing all around the room. The 2-year-old wasn’t yet dressed and, as is also the usual case, we were running late. In a desperate attempt to get a moment of peace in which to feed the baby, I asked the 2-year-old if she would go down to her room and pick out what clothes she wanted to wear for the day. She told me no but then took off running down the hallway in the direction of her bedroom.
I figured she wasn’t about to go do what I’d asked her to do, but she also wasn’t distracting the baby anymore—and no one was screaming—so I was willing to call it a win.
I finished feeding the baby and headed out to the kitchen to make sure The Bigs had shoes and socks on and that backpacks were packed. It was then that I realized that I hadn’t seen or heard from the 2-year-old in quite a few minutes. Not a good sign. She was probably down the hall, “cleaning” the bathroom with lotion or something equally as helpful.
Just as I headed out of the kitchen to go check on her, she appeared in front of me, fully dressed and ready to go. She had taken it upon her little 2-year-old-self to go into her room, take off her jammies, put them in the hamper and then dress herself in leggings, a skirt and a shirt. Sure, the shirt was on backwards but she’s 2, you guys. And she got totally dressed all by herself. I was so, so proud of her in that moment. We made a big deal of what a big girl she is for getting dressed by herself, and she beamed with pride for the rest of the morning!
It was a Thursday morning win, for sure!