It's morning, barely... perhaps by literal definition only. It's pitch black outside. It's FREEZING in my old house. I am snuggled in bed, nursing the baby, and praying that no one wakes up anytime soon.
It's 5:13 in the morning.
By 5:34, Ezra, the baby is back to sleep. I am trying to decide if it's worth closing my eyes again. Despite my best efforts, they close.
Then, I hear a door slam, and tiny, three-year-old feet stomp from his room to mine.
There he is, my own personal alarm clock. Every morning for the three years I've known him, between 5:00 and 6:00 in the morning, he appears.
"Mommy," Spencer stage-whispers. My eyes remain shut.
"MOMMY!" Louder now, and he's looming directly over my face.
"MM?" I finally respond, eyes still closed.
"Can I eat?" A whine is in his voice. Annoying!
"Mmm-hmm," I answer. He stomps out of the room. I don't know why he marches like an army-guy first thing in the morning, but on our wood floors, it sounds like an elephant on the loose.
It makes me angry.
Then I hear his door open and close, loudly, then again, open and close, open and close.
WHAT IS HE DOING?
He shares a room with two of his brothers. He is going to wake them up. No doubt. I listen, hoping he stops.
"MOMMMMMYYY!" Oliver, the 21-month-old is now awake.
"SPENCER WOKE ME UP!" Henry, the five-year-old yells.
That's it, folks. It's 5:37 now, and they are all awake.
I have a choice now. I can either lay in bed and yell at the kids whenever they come near, or I can get up and get the day started.
I can't control when the stinkers get up. I can't change that it's cold and dark and wintery. I can't control that I am so tired I could die. I can't control that my husband was up until 2:00 AM working and that he'll have to do it again tonight.
All I can control is how I react. I want so badly to stay in bed, to drift back to dreamland. And some mornings that's how it goes, and I alway regret the turmoil that fills the morning when I do. The day goes better if I have a good attitude.
I take a few deep breaths. I can not let the angry, non-morning-person-mommy escape. I am better than she is. She is roaring deep down inside of me like a very hungry lion. My hunger is for sleep, SLEEP!
I crawl around the baby, who looks so comfortable and warm that it makes me want to cry. I pull on a sweatshirt, cold from laying on the floor all night, shove my feet into my slippers, I force my eyes open and I'm off.
Thank goodness for blueberry muffin mix and hot chocolate.
By 7:30, there is a sliver of sunshine coming over the mountains. Daddy wakes up and lends a hand.
It's going to be a good day.
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Morgan is not a morning person. She talks about this frequently among other things at The Ing Family.photo from: wyominglandscapephotography.com
