In The Morning

Sometimes Jamie wakes up before I do. He always wakes up before The Swede does. To be fair, I wake up at the crack of dawn because my morning routine rivals that of a pre-Oscars starlet. No, I'm sad to say that I don't wake up the perfect ten you see here on the pages of this weblog. At any rate, at some point during my primping, if he didn't happen to wake up before me, Jamie will make his presence known from within his room with a squawk or some good-natured chatter, depending on his mood. I'll open the door and find him standing in his crib, telling me which of his toys he wants to play with. And then he'll do just that for a few minutes while I fix my hair, sling plastic dinosours about and throw himself on top of stuffed animals and tear through books until he remembers that Papa is in the next room. That's when he flings open our bedroom door, waking The Swede with his enthusiasm and the bright light from the hallway. And in the moments that follow, which I know from experience aren't easy to appreciate, a groggy Swede plays in bed, half-asleep, with his son. And I, wide awake after an hour of preening, get to start my day with some of the dearest scenes of my life.