The alarm sounds at 5:15 am. I fumble to reach my iPad, hoping that I’ll escape dropping it to the floor. I hit the snooze button, but only after putting in the required pass code to unlock the dang thing. Jeezzz! It’s too early for this. Even with all the commotion, I still manage to fall back asleep before the next sound of the alarm. By now Richard has entered the shower, and I decide to be kind and wait until he is done before entering the other bathroom. You know, I don’t want to affect his water pressure … it has absolutely nothing to do with wanting to grab five more winks before starting the day.
As soon as I hear his shower stop, I leap up and sprint to the other bathroom that I share with Maddy. Well, kinda. Okay, actually I walk like an old, old peasant lady as my body decides what to think of this new day. Meanwhile, Luigi, the wonder cat, is waiting patiently at the head of the stairs and offers me a pathetic good morning meow as fumble on by. Richard is who he really longs to see. I let the shower run for a few minutes before entering. And then, bam. I’m awake. It’s that easy. BAM! Just ask Emeril.
By now Richard has dressed and is downstairs starting the day; Gigi is off raiding the bowls of neighbor cats, while Madelyn is still fast asleep. (Or is she faking? I don’t know. I never know.) I dry my hair. I quickly iron a wrinkle-free shirt and grab the jeans I wore Monday. Surely no one will notice. I check my email, my Facebook feed. And then, I futilely attempt to wake up the sleeping child. Without her in the mix, I could be out the door within 30 minutes of waking.
Oh. My. Goodness. She simply does not want to get out of bed. Ever. (Except for Saturday and Sunday, that is.) We have a sleeper, I’m afraid. I know that when she is fifteen she will “sleep her life away” on the weekends and stay in bed until noon. Of course, when she sleeps until 9:30 on a Saturday, we LOVE it. I hope to remember this when she is fifteen.
Eventually, after repeated attempts, I get her to open her eyes. My friends tell me that she has the divine luxury of being an only child. In their homes of two or three children, there is no time for such coaxing each morning. I help to get her dressed with the clothes that I picked out for the day. Yep. She is eight and she totally lets me pick out her every outfit. What can I say? You win some, you lose some.
She calls to her Dad to carry her down the stairs. Dutifully, dotingly he arrives and tells her she is getting too big for this; he carries her nonetheless. I warn him to be careful on the stairs. He’s already prepared breakfast for both of us: scrambled eggs with a glass of milk for her, eggs and coffee for me. And then the three of us sit together as a family. A bona fide, dignified, connected family having a civil breakfast conversation together. It's his thing; he insists. I love him for it. I pray that this, too, will continue when she is fifteen. She demands more milk. I tell her to get it from the fridge.
With the clock between the two windows as our watchman, we decide that it’s time to go and the pace quickens once more. Richard has already packed her snack in her backpack; I help her to gather her books left out from yesterday’s homework.
But wait … oh no … we can’t find the dang cat. He’s still out. He won’t come when I call. “Here, here Luigi! Meow! Meow! Gigi! Gigi! Vieni!” I shake the treats. No cat. He says he’ll text Rosy to ask her to let him in later. Dang cat.
And then we are off. Me in the moldy-smelling wagon with the hidden leak near the passenger floor board and those two in the sleek and hip Fiat 500. Only to wake up and do it all over again tomorrow.
I love my life.
I've enrolled in the Ali Edwards 31 Things Workshop at Big Picture Classes. I need incentive to get my writing mojo going again, friends ... not that I'm busy or anything at this time of year. Sheeesh.