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Monday morning
It's 6:15 Monday morning. No one else is up yet. This is my time to exercise and catch up on the news before alarms go off and bodies begin to fill the kitchen. So, I'm pushing and pulling on the exercise machine and watching CNN when Katy's voice surprises me from the hallway, "Can I borrow your shower cap?"
Just give me two more minutes, I'm thinking. But, I have to answer. "Why can't you use your own? I just bought you one."
"I can't find it."
"Last time you borrowed mine, I found it two weeks later under your bed." I glance at the clock, get off the machine, turn off the TV, and head for the kitchen.
Katy follows. She opens a drawer and pulls out a roll of plastic wrap. "I'll use this," she mutters, measuring a section to cover her head.
I watch her, then mutter back, "You can use mine, but please return it this time." Now that I'm feeling sufficiently guilty for being ungenerous, Katy can borrow with a clear conscience. This 15-year-old is famous for taking my things and then losing them. Thank goodness she's bigger than I am now and there isn't much she can borrow. So, why do I feel guilty? She's the one who doesn't return what she borrows. Still, I want to start the day off better, so I reach out and start tickling. That never fails. She wriggles away and heads for the shower.
It takes fifteen minutes to unload the dishwasher, make two ham & cheese sandwiches and bag them along with pretzels, granola bars, apples, muffins, and sodas. Five more minutes to fill my cereal bowl and Anna's, start coffee, cut fruit slices, and pour milk. At 6:50 I let the dogs out and go upstairs to fetch the three-year-old.
Ten minutes later my youngest and I are munching cereal at the table, Katy is making toast, and Peter is discovering--once again--that when you add milk to a heaping bowl of cereal, it floods. He's sixteen.
"All set for school?" Katy asks, approaching her little sister with a hairbrush.
"Oh, yes!"
"Want me to put your hair in pony tails?"
Oh, no!"
"What if I put blue bows on your ponies?"
"Okay." So Katy starts brushing. But it's snarly this morning, and Anna is impatient.
"No, don't do it," she protests, shaking her head.
It's nearly impossible to lasso bucking ponies, so Katy has to surrender to the wisdom of maybe tomorrow. She puts the bows on Anna's doggie slippers and heads for the bathroom to fix her own hair.
I'm thankful for the 12 years between them which helps keep peace around here. It took Katy and Peter at least that many years to have any interaction without tears.
My husband, John, moves amiably to and from the breakfast table and deposits his dishes in the washer. Good enough. Once they showed up in the fridge; another time I found them in the dishwasher, right-side up with cereal and milk still in the bowl.
Peter has finished eating, so it's safe to approach him now. "Dad won't be able to pick you up until five o'clock. Will you please study at school after vocal practice? You have three tests tomorrow."
I know there's zero chance he'll study, but I keep hoping.
He smiles. Good sign. But then, he slides into his clown routine, dancing around and making up some rhyme about it not being cool to study at school.
"Just study, okay?" I push him toward the door. It takes effort to look stern.
He detours to the bathroom to check out zits (none evident) and smile in the mirror. "Aren't you lucky I'm so handsome."
"Goodbye, Peter!" John and Katy are already waiting in the car.
An hour later, Anna and I arrive at her school. We say hello to some kids, and Anna heads for the reading corner where we read The Three Little Pigs, while she collects her own mental bricks to build a safe house at school. When it's time for me to leave, there's a quick hug and a kiss. Then, her muscles stiffen and she looks the other way. My cue to exit. Soon it will be easier to say goodbye; I know she has a good time here.
Back home, I brew a second cup of coffee and smile. The next two hours are all mine. Papers scattered on my desk and a glowing computer screen welcome me to work. I sit down and sip warm espresso. The phone rings, and I don't answer it.
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