I start with the oranges. Perhaps it's the smell, or that it doesn't require much brain power, but by the third small orange placed in the container, I am ready for more. My brain starts engaging, I can begin to open my sleep filled eyes. The smell of the coffee brewing. The trickles of the caffeine rush I am about to enjoy, drips into the carafe.
I move on to the salads, the sliced fruit, all placed into his large lunch box, he'll have plenty of options for his day. The sandwich is always the last step. By this point, I can manage more than one thing at a time, and juggling the lettuce, cheese, meat, and bread, I invent a new taste concoction for the day. I wonder how it is that he can eat the same lunch every day and like it...then I think of my coffee...still the same deliciousness...maybe that's how he feels...maybe he feels my love...in each bite of his sandwich.
Breakfast burrito or egg sandwich in the microwave, to eat on his way to work, and I am moments away from freedom, from my time, to write, to read, to socialize, to disengage.
Kisses, longing looks of, oh I wish we coulda coulda last night, and my husband is out the door. He's ready for his 12 hour day, for the driving, for the sales, for the fixing...he's off...and I miss him already.
I grab my coffee and I'm in. Networked. Reading. The words on the screen fill my mind, inspire me to do, to be, to think. I savor each moment. The laugh. The status update. The thought provoking post that requires further analysis during my day. The friends I miss. This time is all mine, and I am loving it, embracing it.
Was that....? The denial. I'm not finished, I have a few more articles to read, another blog post to edit. No. I didn't hear him...maybe it was the dog.
The disappointment sinks in as I race to the bedroom. I'm not done. I didn't get as far as I'd hoped. I wanted more. More time to reflect, to focus, to be. I really wanted to finish this or that, or both. I am not ready to entertain, to change pull ups, to play "ram mommy with the tractor truck." Just...not yet...
Then, I arrive at my son. His covers kicked off. His cold feet. His open arms. His half-asleep cry for me to hold him, to help him wake up, to help him embrace the day. I pick him up. Feel the weight of his body. The feeling of his arms around my neck, his head resting on my shoulder. A huge hug.
I hold him tight...until I let go of my disappointment, until I let the love in, until I arrive in the moment. He's already in it, already bellowing sleepy words at me to go do this, to get that...and I just wait. Wait for the gratitude. Wait for the tenderness. Some days are easier than others. Sometimes the hug is short because we are both raring and ready to go, and sometimes the hug is long because one of us really needs it, needs the connection, needs the grounding. We talk about his dreams. About how much I missed him while he was sleeping. About what we are going to do for the day. When the hug ends, connection established, the morning routine begins, the day is in full motion.
On the occasional weary tired morning, I will try and coax him back into bed. Under the covers between his mommy and daddy. Snuggles. Sleep. He'll often try and go with it, feeling loved, warm. Those moments in and out of sleep, dream land and reality...it will all end with one of two things happening--one--he jumps and lands knee in my ear, giggle laugh, and repeats; or--the more prefered--two--in the sweetest of voices, he looks up at me, big brown eyes, hair disheveled, and says, "Mommy, it's wake up time."