This morning should have been a piece of cake with Big Guy, considering that he was looking forward to gingerbread boys. Plus it was the first morning all week I hadn’t gone 15 minutes too long on the snooze, so we should have been set.

Big Guy’s been jazzed all week because, due to the herculean efforts of his teacher to make it allergy-safe, for once he would get to do the same gingerbread-friend project the other kids were. That woman makes me in favor of human cloning.

But when the time came to get it in gear, he slipped into mosey instead of drive.

First he spent five minutes pulling his pajama bottoms up to his chest, proclaiming, “Look! I’m Baba!”

Once he finally took off the pants, he needed another five minutes to sit around in his underwear. Then came the gummy bear and gummy fish dance, a new morning ritual his vitamins must perform before they’re swallowed.

Somehow we made it out the door close to on time, so there was no weeping and wailing up the sidewalk. But, sheesh, I do tire of playing Gumby to his Pokey.

Don’t get me wrong: I adore every little goofball move. The Baba re-enactments, the stopping to spaz dance in the middle of playing catch, the hunched-over little old man imitation that leave his friends in stitches, the monster with its arms poking through the shirt strait-jacket style.

And I love the curious little mind that can make Richard Scarry last as long as “War and Peace.” Or turn a stroll around the neighborhood into an adventure in leaf-collecting, bug-exploring and bird-watching.

But please: Can’t we all just move along?

Big Guy’s particularly frustrating at this stage, because if it interests him, he can pay attention for ages. But if it’s something borrrrrrrrrring, such as picking up his dirty clothes, well, there are a million diversions between him and the laundry hamper.

It’s a basic human rights issue. Who gets to drive whom nuts? Does his ability to make me crazy by basically being him trump my need to just get it done?

Truth be told, I’m sometimes in more of a hurry to get it done than I need to be. Walking home from school, when there’s no deadline pressure, I’ve bitten my tongue of late to avoid nagging him every third step. He gets to set a more leisurely pace, as long as we get home before dinner.

And I’ve learned to laugh more at his goofiness, instead of tut-tutting because the socks still aren’t in the hamper.

Because one of these days, when he’s so teen-age cool he’ll deny ever having done it, I’ll miss the Baba imitations.

Copyright 2009 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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