The Question Of Death

Smoochie, being the bright and curious 7 year old he is, has a fondness for questions that may very well be the death of me. I love my son, don't get me wrong, he is the definitive answer to the question what is right with my world. But every morning it begins, without fail, just seconds after I hear the resounding thud of two quickly growing feet hit the hardwood floor next to his bed. The sound of those bare feet hitting that hardwood floor is essentially the same as the morning tornado siren. His bedroom door pops open and it begins.

"Mom, what's for breakfast, where's Critter, is he still sleeping? Mom. Mom. Mom. What's this? Can I turn on the TV? Can I make my own toast?"

Meanwhile, as I try to fumble with my coffee filter and wish desperately for it to be made RIGHT NOW DOGGONE IT, I realize that he actually wants answers for each individual question that spewed forth from within him in the form of one long run-on question. Way to go, David. Attack the giant while she's still half asleep and morning coffee deprived. Even wide awake my mind can not register, process, and answer questions at that astonishing speed. I think I might name that boy's lips The Little Speed Racers.

*INTERMEZZO* I apologize for the interruption in the typing of this story, but as I was trying to pump a post out for my blog so the three of us could race off to our local pool , Smooch was gracious enough to burn the tar out of his toast, setting off the smoke alarm. He alerted me to his dilemma by clearing his throat and announcing louder than the alarm, "DINNER'S DONE!!!!" To be honest, the little cherishable moments like these are the gems of my day. Just please don't inquire as to why the boy MIGHT think dinner is done when the smoke alarm goes off...

At any rate, this morning, having brought forth the official one millionth question of the week, I forced my eyelids to actually open enough to include more than the coffee pot and jumped feet first into the land of total frustration.

"Please. Smooch. I do not want to answer a ton of questions right now. I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet. Back. Off."

Now, as I stated previously, Smoochie is really a very bright boy. He can take a hint. He can also see when Mom's about to snap. Off to Critter's room he went to play with the baby in all his stinky diapered glory so the grouchy morning mom monster could dip her fangs in her morning coffee.

My break lasted all of 2.75 minutes before the mind of Smooch forgot his quest not to ask his mother questions. Before I knew it he was standing directly behind me as I waited for the morning elixir of attitude adjustment, effectively turning our kitchen into the tornado alley of questions. It was ugly. There were words and letters and questions and question marks flying everywhere and my mind was quickly and efficiently being pummeled to mush.

I'd reached my last straw. Mommy monster bared her fangs, squinted her eyes with purpose, squared her shoulders, and turned to face Little Speed Racer Lips head on.

"Mommy. Has gone on strike," I growled. "I do not want to hear, seetasteorsmell, and refuse to answer, another question THIS. MORNING.

I had pulled out every ounce of sternness I could muster. I looked the boy square in his bright blue inquisitive eyes and saw a familiar glint (both boys have inherited a glint of mischief from Bonehead- the one sure way to notice when they are up to no good at all) staring right back at me.

"Mom? Would that be for the ENTIRE morning, or just a little while?"

And that, in a nutshell, has been my morning. All 1 hour and 45 minutes of it so far, streaming to you almost live from my home. If you'll excuse me, I should go provide Critter his breakfast, if only to encourage him not to sit around growling at his toys.