The Unraveling of Morning

I don’t know that anyone could prove I was awake. I don’t even know myself. It was one of those moments of cogent thought in the blur of a dream. My eyes were closed, and I could feel the warmth of the sun across my body. Briefly my mind entertained a moment of thanks that the baby had not yet crowed and instantly, before my brain could roll over and continue its slumber, the morning was greeted by the army of roosters that reside in the heart of my youngest, “DAA-DAAAAAAAA! MAA-MAAAAAAAAA! BO-BOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Doodle-do, motherfuckers.

I knew what I must do. It was early- late enough for people with a reason to be up, but too early for me. I left my bed and broke my first rule of the day. I made him a small bottle, wrapped him tightly in his blanket and told him lies about it still being nighttime. (The rule was the bottle. We don’t condemn lying for the sake of extra sleep.)

It worked. I could see him accepting my generosity and fading back into the comfort of another lazy hour. Yet I knew that despite my quick thinking I was still doomed. Other matters were now in play.

Moments after I crawled back into bed a cat cried, loud and often. I got up and let the cat out.

Scene: Our hero pulls the warm blanket over his cold yet incredibly muscular body. Cue the dog.

Then the other cat.

Then the other dog.

Then the dogs want in.

Then the oldest boy stirs. I sternly tell him to go back to sleep if he has any designs on enjoying Christmas this year.

Apparently we have another cat.

Horns honk. Dogs bark. Dogs want out. Again.

I go pee.

It’s been 40 minutes since my feet first touched the frozen tundra. I beg them to trust me and crawl, yet again, back into the waiting confines of my bed.


It had been nearly twenty minutes and the side of my face is wet, submerged in a pool of drool.


Take that, morning.

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