My Morning Lark

It was cold out this morning when Boy left for work. When he closed the door, and the cold air came up into the kitchen, I was hit with a wave of nostalgia. It was the strangest thing, it reminded me of my Father. He was a morning person.

My Dad would wake up singing and smiling no matter what. On school days I would get up and he'd be awake already. The coffee would be made and he would be getting ready for work. He suffered from constant sinus issues. So, he would take an incredibly hot shower. I know this because he would open the bathroom door, and a great fog would come rolling out. He would walk around taking deep breaths, and saying how good it was to breath. Then, he would usually blow dry his hair for what seemed like hours. He would come out singing and smelling like old spice and soap. My Dad always sang in the mornings. It didn't matter what kind of day he had had the day before or how terrible a night sleep he had. And, he had many, because, he suffered from insomnia for years. But, he would always sing.

I hated mornings. I would usually sit at the kitchen counter hanging on to my coffee waiting for him to finish getting ready, so, I could take my turn in the bathroom. I always told him he was crazy for being so happy in the morning, when I felt so miserable. He would just laugh and sing louder.

 He loved hot coffee too, scalding hot coffee. He would pour some out of the pot and then zap it for a few seconds in the microwave. On mornings, when he didn't have to be anywhere, he would make breakfast. Sometimes, it was just oatmeal. Sometimes, it was bacon and eggs. If he made pancakes he would make two kinds. Some paper thin and crispy, which was how he liked them. And, some were fluffy, which was how I liked them. Then he would work on the crossword puzzle. After he filled out a few, he would always turn it toward me and say, "Here, see what you can do with that."

On days that he had to work he would usually go outside four or five times before actually leaving the house. He was always forgetting something. The address for the house he had to go to, or a phone call, or just one more cup of coffee. He would say goodbye each time he left. But, I knew he was actually leaving for work when I would see his van finally, pull out of the driveway. He was rarely in a hurry, he always gave himself plenty of time in the mornings.

 I can still see him standing their looking out the kitchen window planning his day with a cup of coffee in his hand. His blue-eyed stare would be far far away. I always thought it was funny that he did that. Standing there completely motionless except for the steam rising up out of his coffee mug. He had the whole day stretched out in front of him. Nothing had spoiled his day yet. It was fresh. Meanwhile, I sat at the counter. My day, already ruined, because I was awake.

My husbands a bit like my father was. He doesn't sing in the mornings, he's a talker. He has this energy about him. His footsteps are quick and loud and, he walks around like a general ready for battle. His mornings are always a rush. Into the shower, into his clothes, into the kitchen,  and out the door. He doesn't plan his day. He attacks it. Even on weekends. Only in the summer time does he slow down. Only then, is there time for second cups of coffee, and crossword puzzles.

I hate mornings, I hate them. But, it's a good thing that there are morning people like my husband and my father. Without them I may never have gotten out of bed.