Rocking Mornings

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Rocking Mornings
By Shannon Carpenter, Lee’s Summit, MO

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3……

2……

1……

Boom!

The screaming is loud and shrewd; it cuts through the air darting and jabbing into my brain. It coincides with the big toe jabbing me in the back of the calf.

I’m not sure why my wife decides to communicate with the big toe – that one is still a mystery. She at least has the ability to have loving conversations with me. I have accepted the big toe as part of the marriage. Perhaps it’s her direct nature, and the big toe communication is effective.

I roll out of bed and take stock of myself. I am alive. I have a great wife, despite her big toe communication network. I have three great children; they just happen to be loud and rise almost as soon as I put them to bed. My knees still work, and my beard doesn’t have any glue in it from a school project completed the previous day. I take a deep breath, gather my thoughts and begin my day the only way I know how. It’s time to unleash the awesome.

I grab my boy, Ollie, 10 months of poop and vinegar. We head downstairs while dodging cat puke and two very excited dogs who try to trip me. The baby goes in the high chair. I throw Cheerios at him. He likes them and more importantly the dogs like them which is good because in about five minutes they will end up on the floor. I let the dogs out and manage to remember my boots before I step into the snow on the back porch. You only make that mistake once, my friends.

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I make a bottle and hand it to the boy at about the same time the last of the Cheerios hit the floor. I hear the dogs barking in the backyard. They are ready to come in. They have Cheerios on the brain and the thought of those delicious morsels just sitting on the floor must drive them crazy. I’m like that with Big Macs.

Now is my quiet time. It’s the only quiet time I will have for the next several hours. This is my time to check the news, perhaps play a little iPhone game, contact the President of Uganda and ask about the conditions in that part of the world. It’s not much – about 30 minutes – but I don’t think I could make it without these 30 minutes; these sweet wonderful 30 minutes.

The other kids are awake. Time to get everyone rolling.

Like Tarzan calling for his jungle friends, I yell upstairs. It’s almost a yodel with a deep bass signifying that for all that is holy you don’t want me to come up there to get you because if I do go up there, I’m bringing a bucket of ice water and a rabid baboon. I’ll throw both in your room, shut the door and whatever comes out later gets some bacon.

As the rest of my kids are crawling out of bed, I turn on the tunes. I don’t choose easy listening songs in the morning; that’s not our style. We are not an easy listening family. We are a family in constant motion. I put on Metallica, perhaps some Rage Against the Machine. Loud and proud! Shock and awe: that’s our mornings. I can’t afford to have my kids sluggish; they won’t get anything ready for school. As it stands, they don’t much now.

The older two plow downstairs like elephants doing jumping jacks. They are not gentle; they are not quiet; they are an air horn with its button stuck. I get them to the table in time to sometimes catch the bottle my 10-month old hurls at the dogs. It’s a game we play called “God Damnit.” He wins almost every time.

Younger, earlier on as an at-home dad, I imagined myself creating masterpiece omelets, pancakes that practically flipped themselves, quiches that were divine. But as it turns out, kids don’t care much for quiche, and I’ve found that pancakes on a school morning are about as good an idea as chocolate syrup in Froot Loops.

The requests I’m willing to take: awesome omelets, scrambled eggs and bacon, a number 12 hold the mayo, bring the hash, never come. One wants cereal, and the other wants cinnamon toast. I add some oranges, fresh cut up melon, maybe even a side of bacon because bacon is awesome.

I bring the food to the table reminding the kids not to get any food on their blankets. Yup, they bring blankets to the table, and I allow it. Why? Because blankets are about as awesome as bacon, that’s why. The baby gets melon and oranges. He’ll actually eat half of that before throwing it at the dogs. I do it while rocking out because rocking out is happy time.

Our rocking morning sets the right tone for the day.

We are going to conquer this day. We are going to grab it by the scruff of the neck and force it to be awesome. We are going to have a happy morning. We have problems, we all have problems, but we are going to face them as a family and kick them in the teeth.

That’s my real job in the morning: setting the right attitude for the day, and it’s more important than just about anything else combined. Spelling test today? Own it. Sight words this afternoon? Conquer them and make them watch as you pillage their village.

The kids finish breakfast and head to the couch. They want to watch cartoons, and I generally let them because I’m busy changing the baby and the poop bomb he has conjured this morning. Seriously kid, what the hell? You don’t eat enough to even make such monstrous poop bombs.

I send the other two kids up to get dressed for school. I let them pick out what they want to wear just because I do so love the argument that will soon follow. My daughter has caught on and now wears mostly appropriate clothing, such as shorts and short-sleeved shirts in the middle of winter. I rarely even look up anymore to check her outfit; I just tell her to change it. I like my odds of being right.

My son somehow finds shirts that he wore three years ago and states it fits fine; it’s his favorite shirt, dad please oh please oh please. I let him get the second please out before sending him back up. This is all highly coordinated because I do need the extra time to figure out which room the cat has been locked in by the now mobile baby. If I don’t let him out soon, he’ll crap a tornado, and I deal with enough poop in my normal routine that I really try to avoid any poop extra credit.

The kids arrive downstairs dressed. I remind my daughter to brush her hair or else I will do it. There is no argument from her. I have big sausage finger hands that were not made for delicate work. For much of her life, my hands, trying to be gentle as they possibly could, mangled her head when I brushed it. My daughter quickly learned to brush her hair.

I tell my son to find his shoes. He slowly turns in a circle in the middle of the living room looking at his feet, shocked they aren’t already on there, those bastards. “Dad, I can’t find my shoes,” he says. I remind him, like I do every morning, that they are in the shoe basket, where they have been every day for the last three years. He finds them as my daughter finishes her hair and he begins to put the shoes on. He does this while hanging upside down.

I start making lunches. The baby doesn’t like when I stand at the counter; I don’t know why. He headbutts my leg, and half the time, he knocks himself a little silly on my shin. He falls then stares up at me like it’s my fault.

Lunches packed and in the backpacks. I take this opportunity to go through the backpacks and pull out anything the two older kids have forgotten to give me the day before, such as notices of plays, homework assignments, or that it’s their turn to bring snacks.

Finally, I throw the jackets and gloves at the children. I make them put them on ten minutes prior to the bus arriving because if you don’t, they will “forget” and then you are trying to get it done running to the bus stop while carrying a baby through the snow. It’s not fun. I don’t recommend it.

I turn off the music and finally sit down right about the time my wife comes down from her hour-long ritual of getting ready for work. In her eyes, we look peaceful, complete and somewhat lazy. The kids are ready to go, permission slips for girl scouts are signed, and there is usually a bagel waiting for her. And more often than not, her lunch is packed on the counter next to her purse, computer and car keys.

She sees me yawn as I sit in my chair; my sweet blissful chair. “What on earth do you do in the morning?” she asks me.

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Shannon Carpenter is a strapping older gentleman who enjoys the occasional donut topped with chocolate. And sprinkles, yeah sprinkles. Sprinkles are the bomb. As an at-home dad for the last nine years, he vows to take all comers in the speed diaper changing challenge. Bring your A game. Read more of his adventures, with his three kids, at www.hossmanathome.com. Currently represented by The Kepner Agency.

Hogan Hilling is a nationally recognized and OPRAH approved author of 12 published books. Hilling has appeared on Oprah. He is the creator of the DADLY book series and the “#WeLoveDads” and “#WeLoveMoms” Campaigns, which he will launch in early 2018. He is also the owner of Dad Marketing, a first of its kind consultation firm on how to market to dads. He is also the founder of United We Parent. Hilling is also the author of the DADLY book series and first of its kind books. The first book is about marketing to dads “DADLY Dollar$” and two coffee table books that feature dads and moms. “DADLY Dads: Parents of the 21st Century” and “Amazing Moms: Parents of the 21st Century.” Hilling is the father of three children and lives in southern California.

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