It’s a stale line, one invoked by in-laws and aunties: “When will we be hearing the pitter patter of little feet?” as if this is going to convince someone to have children. Funny thing is, I doubt these people have heard any pitter patter recently, or their time has colored their remembrances. Even a little two-year old does not pitter patter down a hallway, she thumps and bangs like drums,
drums in the deep. When that pitter patter wakes you up at ten after six in the morning, black thoughts form in your mind.
“I want breakfast, Babbo.”
“It’s still sleepy time. You can either go in your room and sleep or come in here and snuggle with me.”
“No! Nooooo!” [throws herself down on the floor and cries]
This is how I started my Monday. When I finally relented and got up with TH, she held my hand as we walked into the dining room and said, “I love you Babbo.”
It’s hard to stay mad with that. After breakfast she gave me a tight hug and
said, “You’re my friend.”
Oh, she’s a wily one. Not five minutes later she was back on the floor screaming because she couldn’t do [insert task here] by herself. Five minutes after that we were holding hands and jumping off the front porch step to a
count of one…two…THREE!
This is what parenting is like: bipolar swings between intense love and utter frustration, often before seven AM. Your heart, your soul, and your blood pressure will all go pitter patter along with those little feet.
My patriotic daughter is wearied from flag-waving
Writer, architect, father, husband.
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