An Ordinary Morning

On the day my Substack officially begins, an ordinary morning, I am struck by the layers that create this day.

Alarm, 4:38 am, no idea why so random a time, probably laziness. Go to the bathroom, fast. Sprint downstairs to catch the puppy before she pees on the carpet. After months of being potty trained, we are back in it. Coat on, boots on, click coffee pot on, put on the glow collar (hot pink for Pepper Spice) and open the door.

Open the chicken coop doors, say good morning to JoJo, the chicken who refuses to sleep in the main coop with the other chicken. The loner, the tiny one, the bullied one, the one who refuses to behave like a chicken.

Back inside, boots off, snow pants on, coffee poured. Feed dogs. Go to put more pellets in the stove and find a kid home from college sitting on the floor snuggling with a dog. Take a breath. Ask what is up.

There was a lady beetle attacking them last night. They couldn’t stay in their room so have been on the couch all night. Promise to take care of the lady beetles when you return from the walk. Harnesses and glow collars on (green for Bunny Blueberry, red for Delilah Moon) coffee in hand.

Two dogs go to car with the coffee perched on top. Third dog walked over separately because of car anxiety. All in, drive to woods, the coffee is the most lovely morning treat (black and hot). The walk in the dark, the magic of the walk in the dark. Reset.

Home. 5:45 am. Move laundry from dryer to bed. Move laundry from washer to dryer, strip kid’s bed of all possible lady beetle contamination (kid has extreme OCD making some things harder than for you or I) and throw in washer. Pick up trash from their room. Inspect. No lady beetles in site.

Back to kitchen, second cup of coffee. Begin to make lunch for kid who is trying to put on weight. Two slices of bread smeared with mayo, three slices of turkey. This waits for the bacon in the air fryer. He likes two pieces of bacon on the sandwich. Go sit in writing chair, check on newsletter, check on email.

Look up as Pepper stands at the island eating the sandwich. Back up, plan B, ham he most likely won’t eat. Make it anyway. Back to chair. Back to computer. Lady beetle traumatized kid on couch asks for bagel next time you get up.

Sip coffee, pour coffee for kid who probably won’t eat the ham. Talk about lady beetles and ham and dogs who eat turkey sandwiches for breakfast. Scream upstairs for sleeping kid to wake up or he will miss the bus. Say goodbye. Bagel in toaster. Say goodbye, he runs to bus. Smear the cream cheese. Fire alarm has gone off twice. Coffee is cold. Fire is roaring. Kid afraid of lady beetles is comforting puppy afraid of fire alarms.

Feel the layers of their lives washing over yours. 7:03 am. Here we go.