Our Love-Hate Relationship With Morning Companions

Whether they delight or annoy us, it’s hard to imagine starting the day without them.

Lovers, partners, pets, kids, bus drivers, baristas. Sometimes even birds.

For most of us, our mornings are not a solo act.

How we navigate this slice of the day with or around others can define our mornings, for better or worse. Sometimes, our companions provide us a rude awakening. Other times, a shared ritual as sweet as a dance.

These six stories, all from different authors, share a common truth: whether our morning companions delight or annoy us, it’s hard to imagine starting the day without them. — From the Editor, Evyn Williams

I.
The ancient french door flings open and crashes loudly against the dresser. I hear footsteps and see a shadowy figure maraud around the room. I pretend to be asleep, hoping the monster selects my husband as its morning prey.

“CHEEEEEERIOOOOOOSSSSSS!!!!!” it demands.

I remain frozen. Careful not to breathe. Again I hear footsteps, but the sound is trailing toward the other side of the bed.

“CHEEEEERIOOOOOOSSSSS!!!!” it bellows again, this time with an angry urgency directed at my bedmate.

The sheets pull and the mattress shifts as my partner succumbs to his fate: servitude to a tiny two-year-old dictator.

Relieved, I close my eyes and play dead. I know my safety is only temporary.

II.
I speak a different language in the morning. Not because I have to, because it’s easier.

I greet her with a kiss and whisper, “Shhh. Deedee sleeping.”

“Poopie,” is her typical salutation. She hasn’t learned the value of morning pleasantries.

“We’ll get you a new bop bop downstairs.” Obviously. The smell is terrible and cannot be ignored.

“Wawa,” is her next request.

“Sure. Leave your beetbe in the bed and I’ll get you wawa downstairs,” I whisper.

“Mini wawa,” she insists, spitting her beetbe across the rail of her crib.

“Mini wawa needs a bath. We’ll do superhero wawa for now.”

She throws her head back with a screech loud enough to wake the neighbors.

“Mini Wawa!” She wails again.

“Why are you crying? You love superhero wawa. Mini will be clean for lunch.”

She will not be appeased. I stuff my phone in my shirt and throw one arm across her chest, gripping between her legs with the other. I continue (pointlessly) to whisper, “Shhhs”. I should’ve waited until we were downstairs to break the news about her cup.

I take caution on the stairs, holding her at just the right angle so her head won’t hit the banister should she choose to throw it backwards again. My grip keeps her safe, though her soiled diaper is uncomfortably close to my face.

“Calm down, sweetie. Mama will turn on Didi Baba while she makes breakfast.”

“Didi Baba! Didi Baba!”

The promise of television appeases her for now. I adjust her to a normal hip carry and switch on the coffee as we pass through the kitchen. Her superhero wawa sits on the counter. She grabs it and takes a huge sip.

We settle on to the living room floor and I clean her bottom.

Clean bop bop, wawa, and Didi Baba. She is content. We snuggle together on the couch where I zone out to cartoon jingles, waiting for coffee to brew.

III.
First, it’s the birds. Always the fucking birds. Nature’s goddamn alarm clocks. Except they start chirping at three in the morning when it is still dark, and they keep it up for hours. Fucking birds. Just cheerily chirping away, almost mockingly.

Then the darkness slowly fades away as the sun starts coming up, the pale blue of the room letting me know that I have been lying in bed for about five hours. Five hours and no sleep. Perfect.

Birds are assholes.

IV.
I stand in front of my mirror. I am naked, feeling reluctant to look at a part of me I don’t particularly want to see: my face. Too Dad-like.

To quote an oft-used cliche, I am becoming my Dad. And I don’t like it. “Grow a beard!”, you say? Then I would look like my Dad with a beard. A really bad looking wispy thing that would make matters worse.

I pick up the shaver in my right hand. I turn the power on. The sound of the spinning rotors reminds me of a swarm of buzzing bees about to attack my face. I begin. As the cool feel of the metal head glides round and round the right side of my face, I lock eyes with the eyes in the mirror, looking back.

“Hi, son.”

“Hey, Dad.”

I always have a little trouble with the chin and upper lip. Seems like I need to go over it again and again to get it smooth. The blades probably need replacing. I look away from the mirror.

“Do you really hate me that much?”

I switch hands now. The sound of the buzzing bees, for some reason, is more like a bothersome hum on my left side, and the feel of the blades go from cool to slightly heated. My eyes forcefully look again into the face I am trying so hard to accept, to like.

“I don’t hate you, Dad. I don’t feel anything for you.”

My neck is the least enjoyable part. Too sensitive. I have to ease up somewhat on the pressure and slow down. First the circular motions, followed by a slow back and forth from the top of the neck to the bottom. Only way to get it as smooth as I can. I almost resent it.

“I cried when you left home, son. Not even your mother knew that.”

I switch again to the right hand.

“No. You didn’t, Dad. You didn’t care one bit. You always made sure I knew that.”

I turn the shaver off, and set it back in its cradle. I run my hand over my whole face, not looking at the mirror.

I’m disappointed again; it doesn’t feel like I think it should.

V.
Housebreaking a puppy has more to do with well-timed luck than the myth of learned training. Each morning my writhing, squirming, fat pig of a puppy will jack-in-the-box out of her crate and into my arms. I’ll clip her polka-dotted leash onto her polka-dotted collar and flick the switches by the back door that turn on the outside lights.

The stars will still be out, crystalline in the black sky; the grass will be soaked with icey cold dew, and I’ll be barefoot because I like to feel the earth. She’ll be wiggling, because she likes to drop and squat, tail raised like a flag. But housebreaking requires teaching them to go in a certain spot and so she has to wait for me to cross the yard. My feet will rustle in the grass as I walk. When I get to the fringe of the area where I want her to go, safe from stepping in yesterday’s mines, I’ll put her down to get to business. She’ll circle me when she’s done, proud and ecstatic, stomping around the dewy morning grass.

VI.
I usually wake up before you. It’s been more than a year, but I still have trouble staying asleep next to you. I have an urge to poke you, hard, so you will start paying attention to me, but I restrain myself. I like watching you sleep; it’s my only chance to unabashedly stare at your features. Even though you’ve tried to block all traces of the sun in your room, light still filters in from your slightly ajar door. Just enough to give your face a soft glow.

Your eyes are highlighted by laugh lines and thick, dark eyelashes that I wish I had. Your mouth has little etches of time in the corners, remnants of past happy memories. Your curly black hair is a mess, contrasting with your pale skin, strands going every which way. I restrain myself again, wanting to run my fingers through it. Your hands are beautiful. Your fingers twitch slightly sometimes, even in your dreams; I imagine you’re practicing different fingerings for your upcoming gig.

I carefully intertwine my fingers with yours. You shift slightly; I see a faint trace of a smile on your face. I wonder if you look at me this way when I’m sleeping. I wonder if you’re in love with me. I wonder if I’m in love with you. I wonder what will become of us in a year.

I hate mornings; I love waking up next to you.