Nearly every morning I wake before The Baby Nickel, slowly inch my body away from his, and creep out of the room. I close the doors to the other kids’ rooms, and tiptoe downstairs, trying to miss the creaky floorboards. Once downstairs, I breathe easier, turn on some lights, start my coffee, head to the bathroom, and then SLAM—The Baby Nickel politely shuts the door to the bedroom before padding blearily down the hall. I dash madly back up the stairs, finger to my lips to hush any fussing, and lug him downstairs with me, defeated once again.
Fortunately I still have my other morning slam, one that is better suited to early hours and a quiet house.