It’s early, the sun just tingeing the treetops outside. I’m under the throw on the couch, my usual wee hour place. It’s quiet, just like I like, like I need for stringing black words onto white paper.
But goodness, it’s not quiet not for long.
One boy is up by 5, getting ready, making ready for his day. Packing a lunch, putting on the work boots, heading to the after-college spring job that fit right into the month prior to his summer job. By 5:20, Nellie is standing at the window, watching him slowly roll down the driveway and out of sight, a wad of socks dangling from her mouth.
I try to block out the sounds; try to write.
Another boy is running bath water. Soaking like he always does every morning. He’s already switched his laundry and now his favorites are tumbling around in there. Maybe they’ll dry in time for school? He’s hopeful, expectant. I think about saying this is why you should do your laundry on the weekends. But I don’t, because I’m trying to write, and he’ll learn better without me saying.
The sun is inching higher; I’m trying to write. It’s half past five. The last boy tromps down the stairs, his body heavy with sleep. He rummages in the pantry for a granola bar, sits at the end of the couch, pulls the end of my blanket over his knees, chomps his food, warms his toes, crinkles his wrapper. I try to write. But not before we talk about the football camp coming, and details and to-dos about summer and camps and I realize I’m doing less about those things and he’s doing more.
By 5:50 they’re gone. Nellie’s asleep once again in her chair, unfazed by the early morning ruckus, the mouthful of socks beside her. Finally, I write. The words fall across the page. Within a few minutes, it’s filled with a slice of our morning, a fat hour’s worth of deep-voiced, big bodied teenagers, each one taking to his day in his own way (I’m betting only one of the three brushed his teeth).
And I realize this isn’t so much different than when they were little and I was trying to write, and they were strewing Lego, or snipping paper confetti, or playing Olympics off the couch. Same blank page, same blinking curser, same mama, same three boys. But a different kind of ruckus, a different time of life.
The mound of fresh-clipped lilac you see here has nothing to do with this post, except for the fact that it's sitting in the biggest vase I own, there in the middle of the kitchen table as I write, and the whole house smells like lilac. (!!) Maybe here's where I should issue a warning: Blooming things may overtake my lens for the next several months. Grin.
Here, I write on living well. Where tasteful design and simple living meet in an inspired, organic way.
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