I am not a morning person, but on most days I wake up at some ungodly hour in order to have a little bit of time to myself. I shuffle out of bed, cursing every creak coming from the ancient wooden floor on my way to the bathroom. Every noise, every shuffle, every tick, the sound of a not so distant train, or an ambulance going by, means I am thismuch closer to my Foos waking up. Sitting on the toilet and reading facebook updates (nothing happens in the lives of my friends between the hours of 10 pm and 6 am btw), is an anxiety riddled affair, is she going to knock on the door now? If I flush the toilet, will she hear it? Don’t run the water, don’t run the water. Usually, everything goes swimmingly, I go into the kitchen make some coffee then tiptoe into my mom hovel (office/craft room) and do some stretching. The stretching part is a half assed endeavor, because mom hovel is basically a tiny room with a million windows. I’m convinced every person driving to work can see me doing stretches I have invented and/or poor versions of yoga moves I’ve picked up here and there. It makes me self-conscious. Then I sit on a cushion, drinking my coffee, daydreaming about all the things I’m going to get done today. All the articles I’m going to read, the craft project I started six months ago and want to finish, all the clothes I’m going to mend, that awesome job I’m going to apply to because I totally need the money. Then I hear little feet running from room to room looking for me. And Foos’ raspy morning voice, mouth dry from snoring, crying “Mom? Mom?” My day no longer belongs to me. And that’s okay, at least I had forty minutes.