This morning I woke before my alarm clock. Penny had come in our room (as she often does) – requesting a little bed on the floor next to us. I spread out a blanket and grabbed her a pillow, all the while keeping my eyes averted from the clock. It was light already. I knew I had little sleep time remaining, but I preferred ignorance and the chance it gave me to at least imagine up a lengthy block of sleep still ahead.
My imagination must be weak however because I stayed half awake for the remaining time – acutely aware of all the morning-is-here light streaming through the windows, and tensely waiting on the sound of my phone’s alarm.
Waking is always hard. The actual getting out of bed stiff and groggy and wrong.
But, once I am up and going the light seems happy, and I typically enjoy the newness of a day up and going: the first load of laundry swishing in the washing machine; bagels and Eggos popping up in the toaster; some sleepy-headed blondes stumbling confusedly to the couch where they wrap themselves in special blankets and put off the inevitable, while others move about with more bustling purpose – checking backpacks and pouring cereal, tying shoes and choosing jackets. I like little lunch boxes packed; and messy, tangled hair smoothed into braids and pony-tails; Abe pulling open the sliding back door – letting in a draft of cold morning air – to go feed the chickens; Daisy doing one of her timed reading minutes out loud while Goldie checks for mistakes; and carrying a tired, warm, little Anders down the stairs so he’ll have time for a diaper change and breakfast before we drive the kids to school.
We have a rhythm and routine about our weekday mornings that is predictable and somehow reassuring.
In a few small weeks, that routine will change quite drastically with the onset of summer. Kids will wake at different times. There will be no rush about getting ready – mismatched outfits will be chosen late in the day and hair will be brushed even later . . . if at all. I will wake slowly and easily to the sounds of kids whisper-fighting over who should choose the day’s cartoon. It will become its own routine with its own very different rhythm; one that will leave us wondering how we were ready and out the door at such an early hour only a month before.
I don’t know which is better. And, I don’t even know why I’m writing this particularly. I suppose the usual reasons for me writing any thing here – to freeze things; to put them down where they can be picked apart and looked at from someplace outside of myself.
And, here it is, all laid out on paper and wondering what is to be done with itself now. It’s kind of nice, really -- just writing something with out having to take it anywhere or bring it around to some ultimate truth or final conclusion.