I begin my day with the relaxing sounds of the ocean, slowly lifting me from my dream state into a bright new day. Oh, and by relaxing sounds I really mean the howler monkey screeches of Perrin bouncing on my chest shouting "WAKE UP!!!" directly into my face. His awakening resembles what I imagine it looks like to watch someone take a speedball. He comes barrelling through the house for about 20 minutes, a little Tasmanian devil with no purpose other than to get as much sensory input as possible. He picks up a toy, flies it around for a bit, throws it on the floor as if he suddenly forgot what it was, moves on to the next. He likes to do experiments and his "work" first thing in the morning. He'll just randomly say to me, "I need scissors, tape, and an airplane." He then proceeds to tape up the elliptical machine, attach the airplane to it, and then step back to admire his manic genius. He's typically so engrossed in these activities that he forgets to eat, so 30 minutes before school I have to follow him around with food suggestions or just make something, set it on the table, and hope that the scent of food somehow sends his body floating towards it like a Looney Toons cartoon. Then the true work is to be done.
20 minutes before school I begin the "It's time to get ready for school" routine. It goes a little something like this.
Me: Perrin, it's time to go brush teeth. Go upstairs and do it.
Perrin continues his work, either ignoring me completely or truly not hearing me. I repeat this command directly in his face. He begins to move up the stairs. He reaches the top of the stairs.
Perrin: What did you tell me to do?
Me: Brush your teeth.
Perrin: I have to take off my jammies first.
Me: Okay, then brush your teeth.
Perrin removes his jammie shirt, then is distracted by something shiny in his toybox and proceeds to dig it out.
Me now in his room: Perrin, take off your shirt, then brush your teeth.
Perrin goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He puts the toothpaste onto the toothbrush and then drops the toothbrush onto the floor. This pisses him off, so now he insists he can't brush his teeth.
Me ready to jump out the window: Perrin, pick it up, rinse it off, and BRUSH!!!
Perrin, calmly, like he's trying to talk me down from a ledge: Mom, I am brushing. Chill.
Perrin starts to brush his teeth, notices something moving out the window and must investigate. The toothbrush is now dangling out of his mouth as he opens the curtains to peer out.
Me, the blood pumping in my ears: BRUSH!
Perrin, having brushed 5 of his teeth in 2 minutes, then is told to get dressed. This must be told to him step by step. Perrin, put on your shirt. Shiny object beckons him, and he stops. Perrin, put on your shorts. The neighbor walks by our window. Perrin runs to the window, shorts still in his hand. Once he is satisfied that nothing exciting is happening that he is missing, he puts his shorts on. Perrin, put on your socks. Perrin then puts on one sock, upside down, and then wanders into the kitchen like a newly resurrected zombie that doesn't quite remember how to use his limbs and dreamily asks if he has eaten breakfast. He then remembers that he hasn't yet struck me down with his light saber and lunges for it, going to the dark side, sock completely forgotten.
Me: Perrin, put it down, get over here, and put on your sock.
Perrin, laughing at me as if I'm the most ridiculous creature on the planet: Mom, you're being so silly.
Me, totally won over by his cuteness and his complete lack of regard for anything: Come give me a hug and then put on your sock.
At the end of this insane song and dance, Perrin is dressed and ready for school, seemingly unaware that his mother is on the edge of insanity. I drop him off at school, drive home, and stare at the clock wondering if it is really too early for a mojito.
And then it begins again tomorrow.