Numbers

I got up really early this morning. A little before six. That never, ever happens on an ordinary Wednesday. It was strange to be awake before the sun, to creep into the kitchen as if it was Christmas morning and I was trying to sneak a peek at what Santa brought without waking my parents. The house is so quiet and still at 5:56. Except for Mia of course, who has been alone for seven hours and scuttles about with more energy than a 12-pound cat should be able to produce. She skids across the linoleum like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, minus the sunglasses and underwear.

Jeremy woke up too and we did shots of orange juice (the carton was almost empty) and he put on some coffee. Number 5 in yesterday’s blog in case you’re wondering. He is such a wonderful husband; I could not ask for more. Our one-year anniversary is in eleven days.

Normally I don’t like the morning. Mainly because I adore sleep so much and morning just seems like a thief. I have always wondered if I will turn a corner one day when I have children. Suddenly, like my mother and every other mother I have heard of, I will become a 6 AM riser every day. I will have one of those terry cloth bathrobes and two matching slippers -- hopefully the soft, white, fluffy kind and not a raggedy old blue one that looks like I should have curlers in my hair. I want to be an elegant morning person if I am going to be one at all.

But this morning, morning was good for some reason. I mean, I’ve already been awake for three whole hours and it’s not even the time I usually get up yet. Also I got to see the sun come up and be reminded once again, something I so often forget… that every single day is a gift.