I sneak out of bed doing my best to not wake the baby or toddler sleeping on either side of me. I stumble downstairs and press the start button on the Mr. Coffee maker. Tom has it ready for me. Our coffee making accoutrement is not hip or beautiful. No French presses or pour overs. Just lots of coffee, quick and easy.
As it brews, I walk circles around the downstairs, folding throw blankets. Repositioning pillows. When the coffee is done, I pour a cup and add maple syrup and whole milk. I have always wished I drank my coffee black.
I keep misplacing it though as I grab things to tidy up. I go to put abandoned glasses in the dishwasher, but forget that I have left my mug hiding next to the philodendron. I collect wayward socks. Hang up discarded sweaters. Sweep up the never ending piles of debris that grace our floors.
Soon enough I hear Gus coming downstairs. He is always the first to wake.
"Has daddy left?"
"No, he's in the basement writing."
Gus curls into a corner of the vintage floral sofa we inherited after my grandmother passed away and my grandfather moved into a smaller apartment. He tells me about his Mindcraft adventures, and I sit down to pound out a few clumsy words on the keyboard. "Will you get the cat food and water?"
He readily obliges.
I interrupt my train of thought to go start the dishwasher. While I'm up, I decide to start a load of laundry while I can. Tom appears, dressed for work. Makes himself a cup of tea and then leaves us to our own devices, as we wait for the neighbor girl to go over to eat a bowl of cereal and wait out the time until she gets on the bus.
As the minutes tick by, I shush Gus and his friend when I think I hear sounds coming from a sleepy baby girl upstairs in my bedroom. False alarms. She will sleep late on this gray, dreary day. I think of all that I need to do. Pull something from the freezer for dinner. Cook the dino kale thats getting old in the crisper drawer. Return library books. Collect clothes for give away.
The day will keep moving. There will be more coffee. More toys to put away. There will be bickering and complaining, and words that make me laugh out loud. The floor will stay dirty. The coffee table will become a dinosaur parade route. I'll wish for spring ten times before noon.