It’s stupid hot and humid here. Were it not for the cool whirring of the fan placed squarely in my direction from the foot of the bed, I would certainly have devolved into a goop-y, gelatinous blob during the night.
Ennis needs to be let out; he’s asking me politely, but I ignore him. Every so often I’m startled back awake with the help of a little wet-nose poke on my arm. It’s five o’clock and I want to be a good mom. But I’m not a good mom. I roll over one, two, three times more, and each time the fan hits me somewhere different on my body. It’s so nice. I forget about Ennis.
Six o’clock, I hear his whines again. Maybe I’m a better mom than I was an hour ago? Yep, turns out I am. I roll out of bed the way little kids barrel roll down a grassy hill. Somehow I find yesterday’s dress and something for my feet, then I walk outside. I don’t open my eyes once.
Back inside, Fry is crying for food, but his cries do not distract me from my mission: back to bed, back to the soothing breeze of my fan. Ennis is satisfied, for the moment, and curls up between my feet. Fry joins us, pressing his furry orange face against mine and curling up to share my pillow with me. I kiss his little nose and then remember the giant cockroach he picked up and carried around in his mouth last night. It’s the first time I’ve seen a cockroach anywhere I’ve ever lived. I am disgusted that it won’t be the last. (Humidity and heat, and we just can’t do anything about our dog bowl full of fresh water. Lovely.)
Fry grabs my arm with his paws and licks my hand. I remember how he spent the entire evening prowling, saddened and confused as to why we took his new friend/meal away from him.
I hate him for eating bugs. I love him for hunting them down and killing them.
I forgive him. He’s so cute. We cuddle.
7 o’clock. It’s time for work, but I’m haggard and drowsy. Fry has moved to his dreary-eyed daddy now; Ennis is gone. I pull my computer out from under my night stand and get started, eyes barely open. I hurriedly finish two projects, sending out emails one, two, three, ticking them off my mental check-list, and then place my head back on my pillow.
I’m suddenly mad at Jon for not having prepped coffee the night before. I’m terrible at making it, and he knows it. I roll over again, accepting that without a pot of coffee waiting, there’s no reason to get up.
I sleep. I am fanned by a cool manufactured breeze. I need much, much more time.
9 o’clock. I am forcing myself awake.
It’s Jonathan’s first day of school. I kiss him good morning. I ask if he’d like me to take a picture of him with his fancy, graduate school book bag. He says maybe later.
I tell him to make me coffee, since he knows I’m awful at it. Turns out, he did prep it the night before. I count my blessings, congratulate him on being a jerk, and begin my day.
I think it’s going to be a beautiful day.
(Image: Morning Light on Bed by photographer Valeria Heine)