It was 6:30 in the morning. Since Lilah has moved back into her brother’s room for Act V of We Don’t Want Our Own Stinkin’ Bedrooms, Benjamin was up when she got up. Neither of them seemed to appreciate Mommy’s interpretation of this course of events – “Well, at least we’ll be ready in plenty of time for school” – instead seeing their extra morning half-hour together as an opportunity to build an addition on the home Ben recently constructed for his sister’s blankies.
“Guys, let’s go down and get breakfast first.”
“No, Mommy, I’m getting out some of my best rocks for her Nannies’ house.” You know a guy loves you when he breaks out the good rocks for your blankies.
“Can we do that after breakfast?”
“These are the smooth ones.”
“That’s great. What do you think you’d like to eat?”
“You know Mommy, I have a hypothesis.”
“You have a hypothesis? What is it?”
“Well, since I found these smooth rocks in Grandma and Grandpa’s yard, maybe there was once an ocean there.”
6:30. 6:30 in the morning. Half an hour before he was even supposed to be awake. He hadn’t even been to the bathroom yet. It starts like this and goes all day long. Living with Benjamin is like having amphetamines pumped into your veins for thirteen straight hours. He talks through breakfast (“Plastic isn’t really my thing; I like gold and gems”), comes up with plans for world domination on his way up to brush his teeth, forgets to get dressed because there are Legos in his room, and sees putting on his shoes as an opportunity to discuss methods of panning for gold during the 1850s. We supposedly walk to school, but I use the term “walk” loosely, since he bounds, skips, runs, and hides for the entire mile. From what I gather, he doesn’t slow down for the six-and-a-half hours he is at school, time that I sorely need, by the way, because he’s going to spend the whole mile home jumping out to surprise me from behind trees unless he gets in a fight with his brother which will somehow result in me getting hit in the face and having to try to restrain him on the sidewalk. It goes on straight through piano practice and swordplay time and find-the-recycling-and-turn-it-into-a-band hour and the pre-dinner discussion of Medieval castles and torment-your-brother-while-he-brushes-his-teeth time and then Daddy is finally home to read him The Hardy Boys.
I could take all of this, I really think I could, and still have the energy for making up the story that he needs to hear in order to fall asleep, if only we could institute a No Hypotheses Prior to Breakfast Rule (House Bill 94-214).