. . . and glorious and beautiful and – early. Truth be told, I love mornings, I just wish they came a little later in the day.
I love the air in the mornings, it’s different somehow, don’t you think? It seems fresher and crisper. Mornings sound different, they even smell different.
Morning Glory, it must be grand . . .
When the sun rises, the birds outside my window start to sing a sweet morning song to welcome each new day (every frickin day) as it begins, sometimes I want to shoot them. Shoo, them. I meant shoo them, like away. What kind of monster do you think I am? (a grouchy, tired one) Well yes, generally speaking, I kind of am. Just in the mornings, mind you. OK, sometimes during the afternoon as well. And maybe the evening, a little and only sometimes. Depends on how loud and long those birds serenaded the morning.
I’ve never been an early riser, it doesn’t even matter how much or how little sleep I had the night before. The world just gets moving before I do. My poor mother, she had one hell of a time getting me up for school when I was a kid. Now I’m not saying she has any special powers, she’s not some supernatural spell-caster or anything like that, BUT, I am fairly certain she somehow saw to it that my own children would be difficult little beasts to rouse in the mornings just like I was.
Well played, Mom. Well played indeed.
My husband, bless his well rested soul, he manages to wake before the sun without feeling the need to choke people. I admire that, I don’t understand it, but I admire it. The best part about his early morning weirdness is the coffee. That sweet man makes me coffee every morning and sets it on my nightstand for me. I used to think it was because he loved me, now I know it’s more of a self-defense kind of thing, an offering to appease and soften me up before I stumble out of bed.
Most mornings it helps, but there are days, like today, when one cup just isn’t enough. Alright, it’s everyday. One is never enough. I’m on my own for that second cup though, it’s tough. It really is.
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