With all the changes in our home and family, many things that seemed otherwise important have fallen by the wayside in recent months. I don't feel a bit bad about that, because my focus has been where it needed to be. We are starting to transition nicely into the "new" normal, and before we get ourselves established in an ingrained routine, there is something I need to add back in very intentionally.
I just gotta get up in the morning.
Now, I am not a sloth. While the boys often rise and shine before I do, I am usually up and at 'em by 7:30 (ish...). Calvin is a "my eyes opened a fraction of a millimeter so I must wake up" kind of kid, and then he proceeds to wake his brother (because who wants to play alone?), so it is hard to beat these two at greeting the morning. But I am slowly realizing that I need some quiet time before the day gets too far started, and I just gotta make it happen.
Here is what I want it to look like: The alarm goes off (to praise music, not that nails-on-a-chalkboard buzzer sound!). I stretch, quietly roll out of bed not disturbing my peacefully sleeping husband, greet Marshall, and tiptoe to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I grab my tea and my Bible and sneak out the front porch to read Scripture, pray, and listen to the Lord. When the tea is finished, I take Marshall for a brisk walk and return in time to make some muffins or eggs for my family who is just beginning to rise. I greet the children and my husband with a hug and kind word, and we begin a day filled with grace and joy.
Here is what the reality will most likely be: I have to set my cell phone alarm since I have no alarm clock on my side of the bed, so odds are several nights a week the battery will go dead and I will sleep in until Regis and Kelly. On the nights the battery lasts, I will roll over, reach for the phone on the nightstand, knock it onto the floor by accident, and then fall off the side of the bed pulling my groin while trying to pick it up. I will be exhausted, but will plug on because surely - surely! - it has to get better, right? I trip over Marshall who yelps, waking exhausted hubby who mumbles something that is either unkind or propositional in nature, neither of which I feel like responding positively to. I stumble to the kitchen to make tea, turn on the wrong burner, and realize I forgot to run the dishwasher so I have no clean mugs anyway. Sighing, but still hopefully, I snag up my Bible from the table, dropping a year's worth of church bulletins all over the floor. Instead of gathering them up, I press on and open the front door only to realize that the squeak of the hinges is actually WORSE than the nails-on-the-chalkboard alarm sound. Marshall sneaks out with me and precedes to bark at the lady who apparently has done this whole morning routine thing perfectly because she is already out walking. Instead of being quiet when I shush him, Marshall decides for once in his life to be brave and run to the street to greet the walker. After repeatedly calling him to come back and repeatedly being ignored, I traipse out to the street with bed head, an old night sweat dampened T-shirt, and no bra only to discover that the old lady is actually a fit young guy who has now tripped over Marshall. I drag Marshall back to the house and finally settle on the porch chair, only to hear the shrieking of the front door and see Calvin emerge bleary eyed and in his underpants, followed by his equally unclothed brother. As I try to get them back inside, they begin crying (either from the confusion of being awakened by the barking dog or fear at the sight of their mother braless in an old T shirt with scary hair). Before I can shoo them back inside, the real old lady who walks everyday passes by my house, looks at the wailing boys in their skivvies on the front porch, shakes her head, and (I can just tell...) begins to pray for my home and family as I am clearly needing divine intervention to make it to 7 AM. Nearly at wits end already for the day, I drag the children inside to make a nice breakfast only to discover the wrong burner is still on, there is no milk, and one of the crying children has slipped on a stack of old church bulletins. Just when I think it can't possibly get any worse, Alina comes out of her room to see what the ruckus is all about, and I have to find the best way to translate "Your mother tried to get out of bed too early this morning and if she could do it all over again she'd just wait for Regis and Kelly" into Latvian.
While I will keep my expectations a little low, I know I've just got to try and do this.
Heaven help those early walkers.