My morning routine is about as sweet a morning routine as my imagination can imagine a morning routine to be.
I hear other people talk about their mornings. I secretly smile inside my head where no one else can catch even the merest glimpse of me smiling. My outside may be smiling also, but it would be smiling a different kind of smile, not the incredulous oh-my-freaking-god-how'd-I-get-blessed-with-such-a-fabulous-morning-routine kind of smile I'd be smiling inside.
My morning begins by slapping the snooze bar for Wendy, usually once, sometimes twice. She gets up early. Comparatively. As she's leaving, she drops off a cup of coffee on my nightstand and kisses me goodbye.
Sounds pretty good so far, doesn't it? Ayup.
I don't get up until Cosine gets up. She's my Cue of Choice lately as she's not at all trustworthy first thing in the morning. However she doesn't stir until sometime between 7:30 and 8:00 am, enough time for me to have sipped my hot coffee, slapped the snooze bar for myself a few more times, and regained a modicum of consciousness.
Then it's up and about and the beginning of the day. Pets to tend. Showers to take. Clothes to put on. Phone calls to make. Commutes to drive. Jobs to do. You know, life.
But that first little bit of consciousness, that initial wakefulness. The aroma of the hot coffee, the warm sheets, the radio softly droning, the soft kiss on my cheek.
Such is life with the child grown.
Not all bad.
Not all bad after all.