Routinely Morning

“Time to make the donuts.”

I once responded to one of those e-mail surveys with the aforementioned line as the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning. Of course, it was a lie. My profession does not require me to produce commercial breakfast pastry, and even if it did, I’d have to leave my apartment to do so. We lack the convention donut-making mechanisms to pull off such a job requirement. And despite the frequent discussion of donuts on this blog (Look! Exhibits A, B, and C!), we’re actually not that big a fan of it as a first meal offering. (We prefer bagels, having been raised in an Orthodox Jewish home.*)

*Not really.

“Time to get the baby.”

Yeah, that’s a more fitting first thought to my mornings on most days. For the last four months, Clara’s crib has been located, well, in her own crib, er, bedroom. It’s really far away from my bedside, considering I have to traverse Throwpillow Mountain, wade across the Living Room of Doom, hang a right at Doorway Labyrinth, and end up in the room where Clara sleeps alongside my old trusty sidekick, Attica. She practically lives next door. However, at some point as the sun rises, I awake to go get her for her morning feeding. And based on the limited confines of her crib, she’s going to greet me in a number of ways. A sampling is below.

1. If Clara has woken up on her own accord, she may be enjoying the view of the ceiling as a peaceful, happy baby. Sometimes I feel like I should put something awesome on the ceiling for her to look at until I find my way into her room, rather than the apartment complex-grade white paint that lacks a certain appeal. Maybe one of those Magic Eye posters would do the job. That would be an impressive one-up at the next social gathering – “Oh yeah? My little girl sees the world in 4 dimensions. What can yours do?” Anyway, if Clara is lying there on her back, she’s completely content with the state of her world. She hasn’t yet been told by her stomach that it’s time for breakfast, she hasn’t realized she could probably use a changed diaper, and she definitely hasn’t caught on that there are many more fun things happening beyond the bars of her bed. She’s laugh, squeal, rock back and forth – and on a good day, she could probably go for a half an hour. Probability of giving Dad a Good Morning Smile: 98%
2. If Clara has woken up but for one of the reasons I’ve already mentioned, she’s going to start her day with finding a way out. She’s not at the point where we have to lower the mattress, thusly raising her exit point another foot into the air, but that doesn’t mean she’s not getting into the ready position for launch. For a baby who has yet to master the crawl-climb-repel-microwave-drink maneuver that babies in the CIA do all the time, the chain of events have to be simpler. Clara will get her roll on, flip to all fours – and wait. So when I show up, she can see me coming from the minute I enter, toss a casual smile in my direction (Probability: 72%), and already be in position for a paternal airlift.
3. “OH MY GOD! WHO TURNED OUT THE LIGHTS??? I know that when I close my eyes I night, it gets dark. But I’m pretty sure they’re open right now, and I can’t see a thing! And my pacifier’s gone! Where did I put that thing? I’d look for it, but since I’ve gone legally blind in both eyes, what good would that do me? Seriously? Oh man, now I’m going to have to rely on Dad to get the bottle in my mouth when he’s too tired to aim, and that’s going to be a disaster? What did I do to be robbed of my vision? Look, Lord, I’m sorry that I caused that diaper explosion two minutes after we left the house, I won’t let it happen again!!! Why? Why Me?
   
   (Dad removed pink bunny blanket from Clara’s eyes.)
   
   “Oh. Right. Amen.”