Domestic bliss is so domestically blissful, ain’t it? My wife was talking about the chaos that is mornings recently and I suddenly realized that I have no idea what she’s talking about. It’s not that I don’t pay attention to my family. I do. But, I think that I’m not an active participant in the morning chaos. True, I may be a contributor, but I don’t realize it.
I am not a morning person. Waking up, to me, is a mental battle akin to a cold reboot of a huge database. All my systems are not fully online for roughly two hours.
Each system kicks in one by one. When I first get up, I’m not sure that anything is online. Sight is partially active, but not fully. It can’t be. I’ve walked into far too many walls for my eyes to be fully functioning at 6:30 am. By the time I exit the shower, I am able to see again, but my hearing is still not active. Apparently, my wife has told me some key information early in the morning and I simply do not hear it. For example, the socks that I folded are downstairs. Okay. Seems easy enough. Here’s a sample of an actual conversation.
Wife: Your socks are downstairs.
Me: Okay.
(Two minutes pass)
Me: Honey, where are my socks? I can’t find them.
Wife: They’re down stairs!
Me: Oh, okay.
(Two minutes pass)
Me: Honey? Have you seen my socks? I thought they were up here.
Wife: THEY ARE DOWN STAIRS!
Me: Oh. Okey dokey.
(Two minutes pass)
Me: Honey? Where—
Wife: DOWNSTAIRS YOU IDIOT.
Twenty minutes later after I’ve eaten my Lucky Charms I will realize that I still don’t have socks on. I ask again and find them shoved into my mouth.
Thankfully, taste kicks in right around the time I brush my teeth. I think it’s more shock though. Smell then quickly follows as I go to kiss the baby in her crib. Sometimes I wish that would be the last thing to kick in.
Actual consciousness does not hit for me until I’m outside waiting for the bus. Usually, while everyone is getting ready I sit and read the paper or work on the computer. My family usually keeps its distance from me until about the time The Wiggles comes on. I’m not sure if it’s out of respect for my sheer hatred of the first two hours of the morning or out of fear. Once, and I remember this clearly, Matilda said, “Good morning Daddy! Your hair looks cool today.” I immediately retorted, “What’s that mean? That my hair is uncool on every other day? AH! AH! AH! Purple gophers are singing Justin Timberlake songs, let me die! Let me die!”
Matilda no longer speaks to me until she says goodbye.
Memory is also slow each day. I think I have consistently stated every morning for the last three months, “Hey! Henry the Octopus has a garden! That’s an Octopus’ Garden under the sea. Ha!” I then launch into my deep analysis of The Wiggles and their deep sociological ramifications on children’s abilities to deal with Australians who wear primary colors later in life.
In the next twenty minutes all systems kick in and I’m ready to wait for the bus with Matilda. I can almost engage the other parents at the bus stop. An example:
Parent: Morning.
Me: FORsznck. Potet.
Parent: Um yeah.
Me: Cold, huh?
Parent: It’s 80 degrees.
Me: Fuzzbubble.
Parent: Is that your little girl? The blonde one?
Me: I’m afraid of watermelons.
Parent: I feel very sorry for her.
I’m usually pretty happy by the time everyone gets home. They still don’t pay attention to me. Sigh.
Maybe I should stop greeting them at the door by giving them wet willies.
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