Showers.

We were up at 6, The Who and I. Now, at 7:30, m* is awake and in the shower. Lately, as soon as The Who hears his mommy wake up, he goes upstairs to see her and I settle into what is usually 10 minutes of peace, but what could be up to 30 minutes, depending on how patient The Who is with m*’s morning routine.

This morning, it’s a good long time. He stayed upstairs during the whole shower and is now joining her for tooth-brushing and hand-washing. Soon he’ll follow her into the bedroom as she gets dressed and then insist on getting deodorant and hair gel, too. She’s handling it like a champ up there, for the most part — his zillions of questions, his demands for assistance, his constant chatter. She is not at her best in the morning (neither am I these days) and I know he is trying her patience. I think, I should go rescue her. I should retrieve him and give her her morning routine in peace. But I fight against this urge. 1) Because it’s not my job. She can tell him when she needs space. And 2) Because when was the last time I took a shower without little eyes peeping in through the curtain liner, asking me questions about the shampoo, the razor, the water, standing in my way in the cramped bathroom, demanding to flush the toilet while I try to towel-dry my hair?

A little part of me is hoping that he will exhaust his interest in the upstairs/bathroom routine on m* before I get up there for my shower. Unlikely, I know. But a girl can dream.

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