I always feel like the resident drill sergeant, constantly barking orders. But I have a feeling that it would be more satisfying to be a real drill sergeant since their orders are obeyed.
When we left off, Sage and I were about to go downstairs for breakfast. Cooking of the breakfast is Alan's responsibility. I feel very lucky to have a husband that actually helps with the domestic chores of the house; he is a great help to me and I couldn't do it without him. That being said, let me explain something about my husband. Have you ever heard the expression "Slow as molasses in January"? Well, that is a pretty good description of Alan. If I say to him "you need to put it in high gear, Alan" he just gives me that look that a dog gives when he is confused--the head tipped to the side, ears bent, slight furrow to the brow. Alan has no high gear. He only has 3 gears which are--Staring into space, Scratching, and Slow. It is pretty much a given that breakfast is not on the table when we arrive downstairs. I can feel my stress level rising and go into drill sergeant mode barking orders at Alan who calmly says "I go at my own pace." Sometimes I feel like I should be wearing chaps and spurs and shouting "Yah!" to get him moving. (Oh dear, I probably shouldn't have conjured that image. Alan, if you are reading this I will not be wearing chaps and spurs for you. Ok? Absolutely not! I did the Princess Leia thing, but I draw the line at Ride 'Em, Cowgirl!)
Well, slow and steady will eventually finish the race, at some point, maybe; so, he finally puts the food in front of Sage with 15 minutes to eat before we have to leave for the bus stop. Sage is his daddy's boy and getting him to focus and eat is very challenging. "Sage, stop talking and eat." "Eat, Sage." "Sage you are playing with your food." "Pick up your fork!!! EAT!" Sage's eventual reply, "Mommy, I eat at my own paste!"
I get no respect!! This past week I decided to turn the tables on them all. I took over breakfast duty and let Alan be in charge of Sage. As I am happily cooking downstairs, all I hear are the cries and screams of Sage: "You're mean!! I want Mommy! Daddy, you are hurting my feelings!" I resist the urge to intervene and just keep setting the table as they arrive downstairs. Sage, with a tear streaked face, proclaims, "Daddy is a hundred times worser than you, Mommy!!" Aaaahhhh, finally some appreciation. I hope this means that he will be more pleasant with me next week. Probably not, but it is a nice thought anyway. At least I can threaten him--Get up and no whining or I will go get Daddy. Mwuh ha ha!