4:30. Snooze to 5. Make the coffee this morning.
Husband was right. Not spending 30 minutes blowing out my hair. Need to survive to 5:30 when the coffee kicks in.
5:10. Pour into husband’s cup.
Forgot how to make his coffee.
Black-coffee girl cut out out sugar & cream in January. I have guilt.
When was the last I made him a cup of coffee? Why haven’t I encouraged him to drop the cream? What can I do to get him on the elliptical?
Remember he likes his coffee extra hot. Zap it for 15.
5:15. Beatrice is pulled in tight against Daddy’s back.
She chose him. He looks like me on most mornings: fetal position, hanging off the bed.
She couldn’t sleep last night — did I invite her?
Gently touch husband’s hand, caressing his palms awake. Waking spreads to one eye, until it finds its partner.
Picture of us on the beach by his bedside. A favorite. He’s buried in a hole, I’m thrown over him.
Were we 22? Is that a mullet? Yes, that’s definitely a mullet.
Gray man needs to trim his goatee.
I’ll cut his hair, the way he likes it. Wake up, gentle bear.
5:20. 3 hours sleep.
He swings his legs over the edge. Hangs onto the bed. Takes a sip.
How is it? Too much sugar? Too hot? “Too everything… Diesel.” But we have wake up. “That doesn’t make it right….” His eyes laugh through his morning squint. Dim light peeks from the closet.
Someone wants to roll over and go back to bed…
Still in his boxers, slow feet still not reaching for the carpet.
“Thank goodness I took the day off.” WHAT?!
5:21. House is awake now. Playful drama. Spring Break is over for me. Secretly pleased it’s not for him.