Morning in our household is something of a movable feast. Sometimes it happens at 2:30 AM, sometimes at 4:00 AM, sometimes when the sun rises. When I was younger, the early morning was mine; I claimed it with vigor and confidence. I’d get up and run the dark streets of this city, I’d write, I’d watch old horror movies and listen to music. I’d toast the sunrise with a cup of tea.
Now, most early mornings I roll over and look into the sleeping face of Sammy, our four-year old. Often next to him is his seven-year old sister Lily, and next to her is Julie, my wife. If she and I want to whisper things to one another, given the crowd, we need to use a cell phone. Somewhere, stretched across the many Menin limbs, is Rufous the wonder pup. Stuffed animals and small plastic figures with sharp points litter the blankets. Often, I have no recollection of when the wave of immigration has occurred; it is just that nightly magic, with kids appearing at all hours in search of security and snuggles.
I don’t dare wake the little ones; my side of the family harbors surly, not-morning people. A family story that has taken on legend involves my brother Glenn, who was on a family vacation in Florida with some of our younger cousins. One of them, Bertie, was a teenager with a narsty streak who was eventually expelled from a college for tossing parachute-wearing mice from a fourteen-story dorm roof.
He decided to wake Glenn up early one morning (10 AM) by pouring cold water on his face. My brother grabbed the offending relative and suspended him by his ankles from the motel balcony until cousin Bertie nearly fainted. Knowing the danger coiled in their genes, I let the little ones sleep on.
As we pass the night, I will often have bizarre little conversations with the kids. At 3 AM one morning, Sammy tugged on my beard and asked me to read him a story. I started reaching for a book. In the darkness. Instinct. And then the little guy fell back to sleep, even after I turned the light on. So, I read the book myself. It was very exciting, about fire engines, and I found it difficult to get back to sleep, I was so jazzed.
Sometimes, they will need a refilled glass of water. This one I'm always hesitant about, knowing that my little darling may very well continue to nap next to me for several more hours. Lily and Sam have never had any nocturnal problems of this particular nature, but I think I might have as a child, and I am very susceptible to influence.
This ersatz family bed can be little disorienting. I’ve woken up to find Sam sleeping sweetly, holding tightly onto my nose or ear. I am then faced with the parental dilemma. Do I remove his hand, and risk waking him up? Or do I wait, hoping that he will do it himself, while I run the risk that for the better part of the morning, my nose will bear the imprint of his fingers? Vanity or sanity? Luckily, while I am agonizing over the decision, I usually fall back asleep, and trust to gentle nature. I can use the extra sleep, anyway.
Lily is moving into the age of dental eruption. I wonder how this will affect her nocturnal pilgrimages to our room. She will have to face a logistical problem- will the tooth fairy still ante up if her tooth is in one room, and Lily is napping in another?
I suppose I should have seen this phase coming. Perhaps the progeny were just warming us up with their sly little Christmas strategy of wandering into our room every forty-five minutes on Christmas Eve, wondering aloud if it was time yet.
Well, it’s a scary old world out there right now. I’ve figured out that if the kids sleep easier, so do I. If on occasion they need a security recharge by listening to Daddy snore up close, or curling up next to Rufous the wonder pup in our room, so be it. Julie and I can catch up on lost sleep later. Like twenty years from now. And I know things will change this summer, if we can afford to put an air conditioner into Lily’s room. Then it will probably be Daddy, knocking lightly, sleeping bag in hand, looking for some space on the floor.
So for now here we are, huddled together some nights like Eskimos on the chilly coast of New England. Is it a three dog, or a four dog night? Sometimes, the whole pack just climbs under the covers. I think I've spotted the neighbor's kid, as well as that German Shepherd from up the street.
As the kids grow, these moments, when they are utterly safe from the dangers of the world and I know exactly where they are, will become much less frequent. For now though, I can listen to the family snore softly- all right, the truth is I’ve woken myself up by snoring loudly, and they are breathing softly in the night. The dog snores too, though. Sometimes. And passes gas.
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