I don't want to go to school!

This morning wasn't much different than others around the house: the clicking of toenails on the floor as the old hag makes it up the stairs and to the back door for her morning ritual. Lately the sound of Sophie's nails on the kitchen floor is reassuring, in contrast to the thump, bump, bang sounds as she makes as her back legs give out near the top of the stairs; and she ends up at the bottom. Recently I have watched her navigate the stairs and she does it with a bit more technique. She ascends the stairs on an angle, reversing her direction about every 4th step. Like a switchback in a trail, she traverses back and forth up the stairs making them less steep. Additionally, as she approaches the top step where the carpet ends and the hardwood starts, I've noticed that she gingerly puts her paw onto the landing and methodically pulls herself onto the wood floor, like that is the place where she didn't pay attention before. Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Getting back to the morning ritual, as Zack wakes we have about a 70/30 chance that he will be in a good mood and ready to go. This morning we were on the 30 side of things. I think it started when he learned that it was 'best dressed day' (interpretation: mass). I listened to his refusal to get up, shower, get dressed, eat, go to school, all from the warmth and comfort of my bed. I finally got up to see what I could do. As he sat on my lap sobbing about not wanting to go to school, I started to get the whole story:

'I don't want to go to mass. We have to sit and stand and it takes too long.'

How could I disagree? I was in a conundrum, thinking back to the time several years ago when the same thoughts ran through my mind. His argument was complete, his logic well laid out, I had to come up with something quick. 'It's not that bad, I do it all the time' wasn't going to work. 'You have to go, why do you think we're paying all that money?'....too much catholic guilt for the 5 year old brain to process....too much catholic guilt for the 41 year old brain to process.

Somehow we negotiated with cherry life savers and an egg/sausage burrito, and as I danced around in his jacket, I acutally got a laugh out of him before we got in the car to go to school.