On mornings like today, grey cold mornings, I have a really hard time getting out of bed. Like poke and prod, beg and scream, I am staying entrenched in my down comforter cocoon. Alfie has inherited this trait from me. Though in my case I no longer scream and cry like a two year old while being pulled out of bed. Generally.
So, like most mornings Timmy was up and dressed before Alfie and I were awake. He then came upstairs in an attempt to wake us both up. Turn on the light? Burrow deeper in the blankets. Turn on NPR? Have fleeting dreams about Steve Inskeep. Throw kiddo on mama? Ahhh, morning cuddles. And fall further asleep. Tickle mama? And Alfie is instantly awake and I am being tickled by two rude boys. Giggles all around.
Maybe the best wake-up ever.
Other notable wake-ups:
My first morning with Timmy. Though since there was not much sleep going on, it is hard to count this as a wake-up. OooooOOOoooooo, heh heh.
Several years of christmas mornings as a kid. Man, I can still feel that excitement in my gut. Not that I remember any specific excitement for any specific gift, but that anticipation, that tensed waiting. The hushed calculation from our bunk-bed between me and my sister trying to figure out when we could wake up our parents. And the tiptoed peek at the tree on the way to their room. Good, good stuff.
A few weeks of mornings after Alfie was born. He slept in a co-sleeper next to our bed, swaddled into a little bundle with his tufts of dark newborn hair on top. Those mornings before he woke up I stuck my finger under his nose to feel for breath and watch him, a little dot of a boy floating in a tiny bassinet. Timmy probably remembers those mornings being woken up by my arm flung harshly into his chest. For a few weeks he was able to sleep through baby cries and my hormonally-charged, super sonic, woke-to-every-gasp-and-sigh self was pretty fucking bitter about that.
When my father woke me to tell me Gram, my great-grandmother, died. I remember not even lifting my head off the pillow, I don't think I even said anything maybe mumbled an 'okay' and just laying there crying myself back to sleep. My room was painted orange then and she had made me a horribly ugly orange crocheted afghan, an over-grown granny square more than anything, that I slept with around my shoulders. And my sheets were orange and pillow case a floral orange as well. In my completely fallible memory, I hear my father close the door behind him as he leaves and am engulfed, a small weeping pinpoint in a rolling sea of pale marigold and tangerine and fire.
That is not really a "best," but notable. Much like I remember the morning of 9/11 lying in bed as the first report of the plane hitting the North Tower. That day uncoils in my mind so sharply. I guess they can't all be good mornings.
One morning more than 15 years ago now, I was solo camping in Hercules Glades in Mark Twain forrest. I had a site down by the shut-ins, which in the Spring are roaring 20 foot waterfalls, but it was fall and the creek only babbled 15 feet away. I was at the spot where my family had been coming to camp since I was little, 3 or 4, the spot with an old hollow tree my sister and I would climb into and look for fairies (really). It had rained a bit in the early morning, before dawn and I was sealed tight in my sleeping bag fighting the urge to get up and pee or stay toasty in my bag. It was windy and with every gust a shower of rain drops pelted my tent and set the trees to cracking and popping. As I lie there contemplating what a burst bladder might feel like, I caught movement outside my tent. I craned my neck to peek out the unzipped fly and just about a foot outside my door I see one hoof then another and another and another. I froze and watched a group of deer shuffle through my camp site on their way to the creek for their morning sip. It was three does and their yearlings. I watched them for a good half hour until my bladder could wait no longer and unzipped the screen and sent them all bounding across the creek and scattering into the woods on the other side.