The scene: Shadowed still hours of morning on the tail end of sunrise. I get up before my alarm so that I may wake the teenager in hopes of conjuring and somehow transplanting five extra minutes into the morning. We have a brief sleepy chat in the dulcet rays that attempt to push past the blackout shades of his teencave.
”Get up so we don't have to rush this morning. Remember yesterday?" I say as I make for the door. Yesterday makes for a weak cautionary tale with this one, as it is utterly deleted from memory.
"Mmmm," he mumbles.
"Come on," My gentle coaxing swiftly moves to gentle threats:
"If you don't get up before I get to zero, I'll turn on your bedroom light," something I know he hates because I, too, hated it as a teen when my mother would do this except with no ten-second warning. Abrupt. Merciless. Like acid in the eyes (love you, Mom).
"Ten....nine...eight....seven...."
It doesn't work. I get to zero. The light goes on. I leave. The teen stays.
Minutes later I feign an urgent-on-the-verge-of-upset Mom Voice,
"Julian! Get up! Come on!" Little bit of a wake up, there's a fire! Just a touch.
He gets up. I hear the shower and angels sing.
Minutes later,
"Heeeelp. Heeeelllllp."
I know what he's hollering for. The "help" is quarter-hearted these days. He knows it will come, even if I obviously know a wolf-cry when I hear one. I enter the bathroom and say,
"Oh. no. Ju-li-an. What is the mat-ter."
"Can you get me new soap?"
I open a new box that is stored in a drawer steps away from where he stands. I open it and stick it through the shower curtain gap whereupon it is gratefully retrieved, whereupon i happen to see the still quite substantially-sized soap bar that already exists on the tray just inside.
"What the hey is that??" I point a firm finger inches away.
"It's too small! I can't hold onto it."
"What-ever!" is my retort (it's still early. Maybe we're both teenagers at 7am).
"I can't wash my bum with that, it'll get lost in there!" is his rebuttal. This quip earns my acquiescence and I go downstairs.
I start up a pan and—speaking of conjure—make a breakfast and lunch in, i don't know, ten seconds flat?? Honestly, I don't know how I do it. But I admit, I am slow to get moving as well. Maybe we both leave ourselves with limited time to make things exciting. This morning I decide to scramble eggs with some ham. It's a quick-eat breakfast I know he likes.
He comes down in his hooded towel-robe to get to his laundry in the basement. Laundry I told him last night to bring up so he could “save himself some time tomorrow morning”— all complete gibberish. Too-mawrrr-ohh?
As he descends, hobbling, hooded and hunched, he warns,
"I'm a naked ghost! You can't see me!"
I tell myself what he’s really hiding from is the truth that I was right about the laundry. I. WAS. RIGHT.
Gratified, I continue my work/magic.
Dressed, he makes it upstairs (laundry remains downstairs) and enters the kitchen.
When he sees what I'm making, with the greatest gall and utmost audacity mine ears have ever hearkeneth, he dares to utter the following:
"AWWW<stop>WHY DO YOU ALWAYS MAKE THE GOOD STUFF WHEN I'M RUNNING LATE<stop>"
Vehemence surges through me. First I entreat: Serenity now! Then I retreat inward and make contact with my alter ego, Zennifer, who surfaces, breathes deeply, and replies,
"DO YOU WANT TO TRY THAT AGAIN<stop>"
*permission for this story to be told has been obtained by all involved persons.
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 Part of me wants to meet Zennifer so bad and get to know her well. And the other part of me is terrified of her! 🤣 Thank you for adding laughter to my morning! You’re the best!