At 6:00 a.m. I grudgingly peel myself away from my bed, pull on whatever clothes are by my bedside, then go and rattle my teenager with a faux-cheerful “rise ’n’ shine.” After my happy, little tune, I stumble to the bathroom and rinse my mush, still at half snore, hoping I don’t drown in the sink.
As I try to remember what she said she wanted for breakfast, I ask my daughter a couple more times if she’s up, to which she always answers yes, even though she’s still dreaming. I flip on KRCC to listen to NPR’s Morning Edition, knowing this will draw her tired little demeanor out of bed.
In the kitchen, there is no routine, which makes morning more confusing. I generally start at night, putting a placemat and napkin (only cloth; I haven’t purchased paper napkins since who knows when) on our floating island. Sometimes I even set out the toaster, silverware, pan, and cover on the way to my nightly read.
Shiloh goes outside and does what dogs do, while Eli the Maine coon and Dusty the gray short-hair circle me like sharks, tails flicking in the air. [Kittens initially were called Piercing and Tattoo: see auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2007/12/tattoo-and-piercing.html.]
Within seconds, momentum sets in.
I open the refrigerator door and remove half its contents. Bread slides into the toaster for my daughter’s PBJ-sandwich lunch, latte heats in the microwave, butter melts in the pan, and water runs through the coffeemaker to heat the animals’ food.
Shiloh comes back in with a man’s hunger and twice as many feet, the two cats I don’t need start sounding like a creaking door and a questioning baby, and the microwave’s high-pitched squeal alerts me to my awaiting warm latte (yippee).
Eggs, milk, and cheeses in the pan, peanut butter and jelly spread, and English muffins now in the toaster, I put vitamins C and E, fish oil, raw meat or chicken soup with some crunchy dry food in Shiloh’s dish. I scoop something dead onto the kitties’ plate and pour hot water from the coffeemaker onto their food, stirring Shiloh’s to distribute the heat, adding cool water if it’s too hot.
Hands washed for the fifth time, muffins buttered, omelette cooked, my daughter saunters into the kitchen with her empty mug longing for hot cocoa.
Soon she’s sitting, mmm’ing, pleased with the flavor (thank goodness). I open the dishwasher, place Shiloh’s warm meal on the lowered door and the cats’ plate below, enabling them safety from a wandering canine tongue. Aside from Morning Edition, all I can hear are mmm’s, lapping, slurps, and crunching.
At last, I reach for my long-awaited mug of—groan—cold latte.
copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.
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