James woke up in our bed this morning, and he refused to get out of it.
So I take his older brother, Henry, to the kitchen, where I drizzle some honey on his cereal. The sky is dark and the coffee takes too long. After packing his snack for kindergarten, I guide him through the rest of his morning routine.
With so much patience.
He wants to know if his teeth are clean. Can he wear a different shirt? Did I remember to send money for the Halloween Dance? He wants to wear a different pair of shoes.
“Daddy, it's just that I wore these shoes yesterday. And the day before that.”
We're all dying from the monotony, it seems.
And then I wonder how James is coping with his morning. I open the door. The room's dark. I can't see him, but I hear a voice.
“Daddy?” he calls. “I hear an airplane.”
His voice is soft like pyjamas. He's lying on his back, but his imagination has already crossed a few continents. Quite possibly, he's already had his breakfast with Boba Fett and Luke Skywalker.
“Yes,” I tell him, “I hear the plane, too.”
I take a seat beside him. And as we listen to this moving hum, I kind of remember how a little imagination before breakfast makes for a nicer way to travel.