… is not nearly as innocent as it sounds. I find lately that it is the sound to which I am awaken – often followed with cries for help that are disproportionate to the need behind them. Often it is Grasshopper, usually between 6 and 7 AM (sometimes earlier), always much louder than is necessary or appropriate at such an hour, and typically related to something minor or for which our assistance shouldn’t be needed (e.g., he can’t find his toy that he fell asleep with that he is likely sitting on, or he has to go potty – which he cries as he is dancing 8 inches from the toilet). Though I often find the small footsteps that are followed by no other sounds much more anxiety-raising – you would think it would be a positive sign, but it rarely is.
This morning I was awoken by such a sound at the surprisingly late hour of 7:30AM. As I braced myself for the possibilities as I walked down to the second floor, I find my children both sitting on my son’s bed (wearing matching nightshirts – would be cute if not for the mischief that seemed to be brewing between them). I decide to avoid asking what they are up to in favor of diffusing their plans with the enticement of television and breakfast. As we walk downstairs – Cricket zooming in front of me, Grasshopper bounding behind me – I suddenly feel a small projectile strike the back of my head and bound over the railing to the floor below. I turn to my son and calmly but firmly express that we don’t throw things at people, to which he responds with a tone of innocence “but it was only a weapon”. Clearly the implication of this word has not been fully grasped by his 3 1/5 year-old brain.
To be fair though, even their mischief is innocent at the core of it. The kids are typically good and mean well. And all of the growling and pelting by projectiles melts away when I see your son hugging my anxiety-ridden wife and telling her everything will be okay (long story) or when my daughter decides to commission me to help her make Mommy breakfast in bed “just because we love her.”
So yes, those little feet can have many implications – joy as they dart to welcome me home from work, jubilant mischief as they scurry to hide on to jump out and tackle me when I come near, or devilish mayhem as they cross the threshold of a department store. I’ll take them all, though I wouldn’t mind if my morning alarm clock had some sort of snooze button – occasionally I wouldn’t mind sleeping in.