Or so goes the song. But it’s not like that here.
I love, and I do mean love quiet mornings. I’m that ridiculous person that is neither a morning person nor a night owl, rather I go to bed early and stay there as long as possible, which is rarely long enough.
This morning at o-dark-thirty, little mister got up and hit the ground running. Ben is my opposite, he likes to stay up late(ish) and get up early. The tension this creates is enormous.
He wakes up bright, chipper, and ready to meet the day, no matter what day it is, and has no notion that I am essentially useless before a loading dose of coffee, even after all these years. So I sit in my comfey chair, prepared to sip my brew and be as mindless as possible until it kicks in, and he sits next to me jamming out to Fall Out Boy. Now don’t get me wrong, I love FOB, just not when I’m catatonic.
The first couple of hours of our day is entirely predictable with him attempting to interact and get me to provide the basics of his care, and me responding in grunts while muttering under my breath about my coffee getting cold.
On better days I remind myself that he’s almost to his teenage years and that Alex finally started needing more sleep than me when he hit puberty (and oh, what bliss that is!), but I’m terrified that every day for the rest of my life my days will start out according to this pattern.
One would think I’d grow accustomed to this pattern, yet my body clock resists any effort to reset and persists in torturing me every morning by being impervious to external stimuli.
Alas, here he comes with his clothes, it’s time to get him dressed. Later today I might pause to appreciate his internal motivation and independence, but forgive me if I just grumble my way through this daily ritual. I do adore this child truly, but adoration hours start at 8 am.