This morning I was awake before the sun! Why? Only my subconscious knows! It’s a Saturday for goodness sake! Likely the only Saturday until April we won’t have to be running about getting ready to go watch a bunch of six and seven year olds play their version of a cricket match. I am awake and I don’t want to be, I hate it!
But, having said all of that I do love the complete silence in that hour just before the dawn starts to break. My children are sprawled spread-eagle and naked on their beds as the fan slowly oscillates moving the warm late summer air around the small seemingly airless room. My husband grunted a greeting as I got out of bed then pulled up the duvet to his chest and rolled onto my side of the bed. He claims my side of the bed is more comfortable, he forgets that a month ago we turned the mattress around so technically it’s his side of the bed! So I got out of bed made myself a cup of tea, yes tea, I am trying to not drink coffee I drink far too much of it, and I sat in the dark lounge watching the sky begin to lighten. Now, in an effort to combat the uncharacteristic heat and humidity of this late Kiwi summer, I am sitting outside writing at the garden table in the early dawn light. The cicada chorus is deafening and drowning out those first tentative early bird calls that grow slowly in volume as more birds rise with the sunlight. The neighbour’s cat is staring at me with one beady eye; he is "sleeping" on a garden chair wondering if I’m going to chase him off. I can hear my insomniac neighbour hanging out her laundry and having a low conversation with her very spoilt dog. I consider popping my head over the fence and saying hello but then I decide I prefer the alone time.
I thought perhaps I could use this time to be poetic and artistic but my muse had other ideas. She opened one eye looked at me looked around pulled the covers over her head and told me to go away. So I sat here, poised for poetry, completely uninspired by all the inspiration surrounding me and wondered what to do next. I got up, made myself a cup of coffee, turned on my computer and started to read some blogs! I am an avid “blog” follower; there is some genuinely good stuff out there and some right royal crap too. But I read anyways because the good stuff gives me ideas and maybe some ways to improve my own blog and the bad stuff makes me feel pretty good and way more intelligent! But there are some I read because these bloggers lead very interesting lives and it doesn’t matter if they write well or not their stories are the interesting bits. But the blogs I like best are the ones that read like a conversation. I like it when I can hear the author speaking as I read, it’s reminiscent of sitting round the dinner table listening to people recounting their lives and experiences. I like to hear what I am reading, or perhaps I just have a thing for voices in my head.
Then the Butterfly woke up, look out the kitchen door at me with a rather bemused expression on her face. Then she shook her head, disappeared back inside and I can hear noises coming from the kitchen as she prepares herself a bowl of Weetbix and a glass of juice. Then the silence returns, so I take a peek inside to see what she is up to. There she is sitting on her beanbag watching the National Geographic channel chomping down on her cereal and I am left wondering when did she grow up? She is a cheeky, stubborn, noisy, happy, helpful, friendly child who loves to dance, sing, and draw and absolutely bursting at the seams with love. She has learnt to accept that she has a Lollipop shadow and that none of her toys are hers any more, they now belong to the demon two year old the grownups tell her is her sister. The trade off is she gets to scooter to and from school on her own, make her own breakfast some mornings and have her own email address. She plays cricket goes to dancing lessons has numerous play dates and long conversations with our neighbours. She’s also now finished her breakfast, bored with television and jumping on the trampoline.
Next to rise is the Lollipop, stumbling down the passage rubbing her eyes calling out for her sister totally shunning the attentions of her adoring maternal parent. Hearing her sister calling the Butterfly yells at her to join her on the trampoline which the Lollipop declines and demands a cup of juice instead. Pandemonium reigns when mum attempted to pour the juice and to the rescue comes “Super Sister” with an emphatic call of “I’ll do it mum I know exactly how she likes it!” Peace returns to the emerging day as big sister pours the correct juice into the correct cup and places it in the correct place for little sister to drink. Now I’m wondering when it was that I no longer knew exactly what it was the Lollipop wanted and the Butterfly does. I am almost certain that they have a secret language, I am always asking the Butterfly to translate from Lollinese to English. I try washing Lollipop’s hair she screams blue murder no matter how hard I try not to get water on her face. When Butterfly volunteers she empties a jug of water over Lollipop’s head and she laughs with abandon. I try soaping Lollipop down or rubbing on eczema creams, she squirms, squeals, and complains it stings, she sit still and co-operates when the Butterfly does it. Apparently I just don’t do it right!
Last to rise is the Mauritian, eyes half closed, what hair remains on his head is all akimbo, he stumbles down the passageway in much the same way as his youngest child before him. Straight to the kitchen to make coffee and then he flops onto the couch to drink it while his girls climb all over him and try engage him in loud silly conversations.
And with it the quiet of the early morning, my reflection and ramble are brought to an end.