I hate mornings. I love the dark quiet hours when the only noise in my house is the dishwasher, the clothes dryer and the distant rumble of my husband’s snores. You can’t love dawn and midnight in equal measures, and so midnight wins. Dawn? I like you, when I see you, but we are incompatible. It’s not you. It’s me.
So, Tuesday, I worked until nearly 1 a.m. My daughter woke me up at 3 a.m.: “Mommy, I had a nightmare.” She woke me up a couple more times . . . then I heard my husband stir. He kissed me good-bye at 6 a.m. I fell into a solid, restful sleep. At 8:30 a.m., my daughter appeared at my bedside. I turned to check out the time and it was . . . . 8:30!!!
My shift started at 8 a.m. I leaped out of bed, grabbed my glasses, socks and my bathrobe and flew downstairs. I’d been working for an hour–teeth still unbrushed, hair disheveled, face unwashed–when the doorbell rang. My daughter answered it and then, “Mom, it’s a lady.”
And so it was. It was a lady from church stopping by to see how we are doing since my husband’s resignation a month earlier.
My fondness for this woman overrode my impulse to slam the door in her face, so I welcomed her, hugged her. I was acutely aware that my morning breath wafted out with every word I spoke. And my hair looked as if it had barely withstood hurricane force winds. My purple bathrobe, while the color of royalty, is not figure-flattering.
I mentioned how I was working–at that very moment–and that we were fine–but really busy, like now, while I’m working–which must have seemed ludicrous as I stood in my bathrobe. But we chatted for quite some time.
Now, if she had stopped by at midnight, I would have been alert, dressed and in my right mind. Let that be a lesson to anyone who is thinking of visiting. Oh, and call first, so I can panic about the condition of my kitchen floors before you appear. Adrenaline is good for the heart.