My dogs are assholes. No matter how late I let them out the night before, they wake up with the sun, and they insist--INSIST--on going to pee right away. Sometimes I ignore them. I roll over and try to go back to sleep. I pretend that if I just put my head under the pillow so that they can't see me they'll forget I'm there, because in my sleep fuddled state I forget that my dogs aren't actually that stupid. They tolerate this for roughly 15 minutes, but then Chimbasa starts making the whoofing noise that is his version of "Look, lady, if you don't let me out to pee I'm just going to go on the carpet, okay?" and I remember that my cranky dog is not only incontinent, he is also, as previously stated, an ASSHOLE, and will totally do this thing he is warning me about.
So I get up and let them out.
6:30 am: An Exercise in Futility Begins
We now come to the part of the day where I return to bed, and try in vain to go back to sleep for just a little bit. My inability to sleep has absolutely nothing to do with my physical capability. Oh no. I could totally fall back asleep. Give me 10 minutes of peace and I'll be off in the land of nod.
Yes, I sleep with stuffed animals.
The small mammals I live with have other ideas, though.
It's always Chimbasa that starts it. I can't really blame him, he just wants to go back to sleep, too. But, now that he's a crotchety old guy, the process of him getting comfortable and settling down is both elaborate and long. He has to scratch, he has to turn, he has to fluff up his little corner of blanket, tuck his nose in just right, and then give a deep, contented sigh. By the time he's done, it's Callie's turn. Thunderdog is awake and ready to go, and since no one else is up and ready to play, she likes to entertain herself on the stairs. Up the stairs, down the stairs. Up the stairs, down the stairs. Up the stairs...
"Callie." I growl into my pillow. "I swear by my pretty floral bonnet. I will end you."
I would not end her. I love her!
But I might sedate her.
Of course, all this commotion wakes Elliot. He's a sweet, charming child. He loves me so much. He adores me. So every morning, first thing upon waking, he comes to find me (if he isn't already in my bed) and places his hand very gently on my cheek and gives me a kiss. And this gesture of supreme love and affection is also the soul crushing vehicle of my ultimate defeat, because I have just been jostled awake too many times at this point, and I cannot go to sleep anymore.
And Charlotte? Charlotte is a boss. That girl can sleep through anything, and frequently sleeps later than me. If she does happen to wake up first, she takes her adorable little self downstairs and plays quietly until someone wakes up and joins her. Charlotte gets the morning gold star. She is my champion.
She wrote this for me this morning.
GOLD STAR!!!
7:00 am: Try Not to Forget the Things
Morning things are the hardest things for me to remember. Did Elliot get his pill? Did Chimbasa get his? Have I fed the dogs and the kids? Did everyone brush everything? Pants? What are pants? Do we even need pants? Are we leaving the house today? Yes? Where are we going? Okay, so, yes, we need pants. Where are your pants? I don't know... have you looked in your drawer? You haven't? Consider making a basic effort before asking me where your pants are.
Now you're asking about your shoes?
What did I literally just say?
7:45 am: I realize I forget the MOST IMPORTANT thing.
Coffee.
8:00 am: The Mental Train Derails, Killing Thousands.
So, there's something about being awoken by small demanding creatures that jump starts your brain at the beginning of the day. There's this whole biological process that makes you hyper alert, and prepared to take care of whatever it was that woke you up. But then--and for me this normally happens right about the time I've finally gotten a cup of coffee--all that extra adrenaline wears off, and I find myself staring down at the mug in my hand, wondering if they're going to legalize something stronger than coffee someday.
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