I imagine—know—some people spend 20 minutes on a yoga mat doing sun salutations every morning. Somewhere someone is drinking hot coffee while sitting in a rocking chair on a front porch while watching chickens peck about their yard. A crew team simultaneously dips their oars in water that reflects the newly risen sun. A commuter is lost in a book of fiction while riding the subway to work. Dogs everywhere relish their morning walks with their owners.
This was my morning, which is like every morning:
Freshly washed (OK, not folded but still) laundry flung all over the living room in the time it took me to feed Tucker and let him out.
People often talk about the things they’ll miss when their children are older. I do it all.the.time. Mostly here. But I know—I know—I will relish my quiet mornings. I’m not a morning person. I don’t like having to share my cereal like a mother bird to two hungry toddlers (who just finished off two bowls of oatmeal, a banana, a cereal bar and a glass full of whole milk each) who, literally, stand in front of my like starving baby birds, mouths open saying “me! me! me!” I don’t like drinking my coffee while watching Super Why. (I know, I know I could not turn Super Why on but as much as I’d rather have the news on in the morning, or classical music playing in the morning, or the simple quiet of open windows in the morning, Super Why allows me 20 minutes to drink my coffee in peace so it’s simply the lesser of two evils.) I don’t like the mad rush of mornings (which I know, once everyone is in school, will only get worse). I like slow mornings. Leisurely mornings. Like this:
My mom bought this cloth calendar for me for Christmas. Designed by Heather Ross, it is my morning ideal—listening to Andy play his guitar while reading The New York Times, Tucker curled up next to me, a hot cup of coffee (on the floor!) simply waiting for sips. I hung the calendar on my pantry door and every morning I see it, I admit, I sigh. It’s coming, I know. But some mornings, my ideal morning just seems so darn far away.
In the meantime, my coffee continues to cool as I deal with a laundry situation—which, as I type this, Tucker has turned into a luxurious dog bed made up of tank tops, tutus and underwear and that smells of dryer sheets. At least someone in this house is experiencing his morning ideal.
“The average, healthy, well-adjusted adult gets up at seven-thirty in the morning feeling just plain terrible.” —Jean Kerr