creative differences

Some mornings, I have to pull out my iPhone and use it as a flashlight to figure out who is at my side of the bed, wailing, “ECCCKS! MOMMY! ECCCKS!” And it’s always the same small sad face and his need is always the same, despite that it is 1:30 in the morning. Brother wants eggs. Eggs. Eggs!

I grumble and refuse to get up because IT’S 1:30 IN THE MORNING. Why does this kid need to eat eggs at this time? Is he just getting home from the bar, having downed all the PBR tall boys he could afford and now needs some protein or else he’ll be sick all day? He’s two. He can go back to bed. This usually means I pull him next to me and whisper softly bark, “GO TO SLEEP!”

I rub his back until he stops whimpering or I drift back to my dream where I’m on a Saipan beach and the waves lap against the sand so loudly that anyone, even two-year-olds, would forget about eggs.

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