Morning glory*

I bought a set of T-shirt sheets yesterday. Oh, how wonderful. They are soft, warm and wrap around you like a cocoon. I had the best night’s sleep. It reminded me of my childhood.

I’ve always loved (and needed) my sleep. I guess the converse of that is I hate to get out of bed. I was so horrid about it as a child that my mom brought me breakfast in bed for years and years. Eventually, my dad decided to put an end to my princess upbringing and forced me to join the living at the breakfast table.

I know no one will feel sorry for me, but it was a traumatic experience!

We had a wood-burning stove that would die out during the night, so it would be freezing in the morning. (I know it’s Georgia, but winters do get cold.) During the night, I would roll around and around, and my sheet would wrap tightly around me. I would be sleeping so peacefully until YANK…Dad would grab a corner of the sheet and pull with all his might (Did I mention he was an Olympic weightlifter?), literally dumping me out of bed.

Now, I know I needed to get up, but couldn’t there have been a happy medium?

I would then stagger down the hall to the couch, where my younger sister and I would kick one another, fighting for position. Pity anyone or anything that crossed my path on the way to the breakfast table. I once did battle with a balloon that had lost its helium. I’m pretty sure I won.

My antics and appearance (My hair would stick straight up) was a great source of amusement to the rest of family. I would glance up from my cereal bowl and catch them snickering at me. My attempts to scowl would usually bring howls of laughter. Sigh, it’s hard being a princess.

I’m much better these days once I’m out of bed; however, I still don’t like getting up. In fact, my very responsible elementary school daughter sets her alarm, wakes up her younger brother, and then comes down to wake me up, a routine we’ve had for years. I reward her with breakfast on the couch, and, no matter how much it sticks up, I never laugh at her hair!

*Note: My grandmother spent some time with us and started calling me "Morning glory." She was the only one who was able to put a smile on my face before 8 a.m.

Eating my words

There comes a time when every parent has to eat his or her words. And believe me, they don’t taste very good the second time around. I know because I’ve eaten my share.

Let’s see…I recall saying I would never let my child ride on the outside of the shopping carts at the grocery store. He ended up riding them like a cowboy on a bucking bronco.

Once I was on a day trip with my friend and her children. The kids were hungry, so she tossed a bag of chips into the backseat, which they promptly devoured. I gasped in horror. I’ll never let my children eat chips for a snack, I thought. Now we buy Pringles by the case.

When my oldest child (now 18) was born, I said I would never use the microwave to heat her bottle. I was afraid it would zap the nutrients. Of course, by the second child, I was nuking my heart out, and with my third child, I didn’t even bother to heat it up!

These days most of my friends have younger children. Since I have one in college who still speaks to me (on occasion), that “qualifies” me as the go-to-girl for advice on child-rearing.

My advice to them is simple: NEVER, under any circumstances, begin a sentence with “My child would never (fill in the blank).”

At last year’s homecoming game, all the senior boys and girls decided to “paint up,” which, as you know, means painting their bodies with the school’s colors. The boys were shirtless and had baggy pants falling below their bottoms, but that wasn’t the issue with a group of moms that I was with the next day. The issue was the girls—they all wore sports bras.

One mom declared loudly and vehemently that she would NEVER allow her daughter to leave the house looking like that. The others quickly agreed, expressing their disbelief.

“What kind of parents would let their child do that?” they asked.

My face felt hot, knowing my daughter had been right in the thick of it at the game. As the crowd of women reached fever-pitch, I grabbed my friend, Dana, and pulled her outside.

“I just can’t take anymore of that,” I said. “They have no idea.”

“Do you know what they are saying in there?” I asked Gail, who has grown children.

I told her, and we laughed heartily, as she relayed all of the things she said her kids would never do.

“Those poor fools!” we said of the women.

In the meantime, I noticed Dana had grown very quiet. Her face was red as sheepishly raised her hand.

“It was me,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I started it. I was the one who said I would never let my child do that.”

I hugged her and said, “It's okay, honey. I doubt your daughter would ever even want to leave the house dressed like that. You have nothing to worry about.”

As Dana walked away, feeling better, Gail and I winked at each other. She has eight years before she has to eat those words. Let her enjoy them.

Kids say the darndest things

My son is a great storyteller. He’s lively and animated. His tales are full of action verbs and colorful adjectives. He has perfect comedic timing. I just wish most of his stories didn’t begin with “The other day, my mama…”

Not that he fibs or lies, mind you; however, he usually leaves out a key component that puts the situation into context. For example, his teacher stopped me in the hall today and said, “I heard you got mooned at the fair!”

Knowing my son the way she does, she had a wicked gleam in her eyes. You see, we struck an agreement early on that I would believe half of what he said about her if she would believe half of what he said about me.

“Did he tell you that the boy who mooned me was two-years-old and that he was getting his diaper changed at the time?” I asked.

I tried to explain to my son that we don’t need to tell everybody everything. He seems to understand this concept until we get to church. Even though we aren’t Catholic, he likes to “confess” during the children’s moment in the front of the church. Fighting the urge to crawl under the pew, I smile and vow silently (forgive me, Lord) to kill him afterwards.

Of course, I exaggerate. Perhaps that’s where he gets it from. At least now, his stories are more or less true. In preschool, they were just plain whoppers. I remember the day I met his teacher. My son was three, and this was to be his first school experience. I shook his teacher’s hand, introduced myself, and said, “Don’t believe a word he says!”

He continues to entertain now that he is in elementary school. Last year, several big wigs from the state Board of Education visited his school for an accreditation process. One stern woman picked several students to interview at lunch. My son was one of them. A teacher overheard a snippet of their conversation, which went something like this:

“Does your teacher allow you to make decisions?”

“Yes, ma’am”

“What do you get to decide?”

“We get to decided if we want to sit next to Alice or not!”

(Alice was the class trouble maker.)

I’m not sure what else my son said to that poor lady, but I do know that she was seen with her head down on the table, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

It’s hard to discourage a trait like this. I think the ability to make someone laugh is a wonderful thing—even if it’s sometimes at his mama’s expense.

Everybody loves a parade

I love parades—as long as I’m not in them. As a child, I was crazy about baton and practiced it diligently until I heard I had to march in a parade. I quit that day, cold turkey.

As parents, we often find ourselves doing things we dislike, sometimes detest. For me, it’s parades. Perhaps it’s because I get migraines, and the combination of sirens, marching bands and crowd noise are sure to trigger one.

My first parent parade experience occured when my daughter was in first grade. I excitedly crawled into the decorated trailer with her and 40 of her closest (and loudest friends) from school. I situated myself, my daughter, and my then two-year-old son, in what I thought was the best position. It wasn’t until the engine started that I realized we were right behind the exhaust of the diesel truck. As the wheels began to roll, I looked around and noticed that I was the only parent on the float. Obviously, they knew something I didn’t.

Now I walk behind the float, which works fairly well, until there’s a gap, and I have to run to keep up in front of a town full of people. Today was the local high school’s homecoming parade, and its feeder elementary schools were invited to participate. All was well until my son decided half way through that he couldn’t stand another minute on the float. After my experience with screaming, I mean, spirited kids, I couldn’t quite blame him.

He disembarked and after dragging him the remainder of the parade, we reached the end of our route. My kids were tired but happy as we headed the two miles back to the car.

“I have a headache,” said my son, “but I can’t wait until the Christmas parade!”

“Neither can, I, baby, neither can I.”

After all, everybody loves a parade!

Feeling witchy

My children bought their Halloween costumes today. No, I haven’t lost my calendar. I realize Halloween is over a month away. My son has a Boy Scout Spook-a-Ree campout that he has been looking forward to for an entire year, so we have to plan ahead. Funny, Girl Scouts are forbidden to tell ghost stories, but the Boy Scouts do a haunted trail, complete with chainsaws and crazy dentists.

Regardless, we would be planning anyway. Halloween is a big deal at our house. I love it. (And no, I don’t worship the devil, so please quit leaving pamphlets on my door). I love seeing the kids dressed up (okay, sometimes I do, too) and running around being totally carefree. It’s great to watch kids just being kids. And the candy is not bad, either.

We started our Halloween decorating tradition at my house a few years ago with a lone wolf man, which consists of a mask and a jumpsuit hung on pvc pipe. That has grown to a full tunnel of doom leading down our walk to our front steps. My children have more fun watching frightened kids enter, in hopes of finding candy at the end of the dark, ghoul-filled tunnel, than trick-or-treating themselves.

We have to be careful of the wolf man; however, he is a bit of a peeping Tom. Somehow he ended up in front of my neighbor’s basement door, little knowing she goes walking at 4 a.m. every morning. It’s a wonder she didn’t have a heart attack or shoot the poor guy one. Either way, he ended up in front of my glass door, much to my horror, as I went out to get the morning paper. From then on, each Halloween, the neighbors and I sleep with one eye open, never knowing where the wolf man will turn up next.

Thanks to after-Halloween sales, our haunted house grows each year, much to the delight of the neighborhood children and the chagrin of my more prudent neighbors. That’s okay; sometimes it's fun to be called a witch.

Ski or die trying

With the first day of autumn just a week away, I thought I’d better share one more ski story before it’s too late in the season to tell…

My daddy almost died the day he learned to ski. He and his dad, my grandfather, Piggy, along with my grandmother, Dot or Mama Dot, and my Uncle Hugh had gone to McCleskey Creek at Lake Allatoona to spend the day. My daddy, 12 years old at the time, was ready to learn how to ski. But first he wanted a boat ride.

He was riding in the front with Piggy in the back. Piggy, characteristically, had the 50 Evinrude going wide open, when a boat pulled in front of them. Piggy turned sharply to avoid the boat, slinging himself and daddy out as he went.

Fortunately, Daddy was wearing a life jacket, probably because Mama Dot was on the bank watching. The boat was running in circles, and everywhere my daddy swam, it would follow him.

Mama Dot was screaming, and Piggy was yelling, “Swim for the bank!”

“No matter where I went, it would come right at me,” daddy recounted to me.

“Kick it, Ben!” Piggy shouted.

Daddy would rare back and kick the boat with all his might, pushing himself away, while Piggy tried unsuccessfully to get to him. This went on for what seem like an eternity to my dad, knowing the motor was just a hair away from cutting him to shreds.

Finally, George Louis, a family friend, who is now buried next to Mama Dot in Rome, Ga., had the presence of mind to toss a ski rope into the motor, stopping the engine. My daddy was shaking as he crawled out of the lake. When Mama Dot finally let go of him, Piggy said, “Come on, Ben, we are going to ski now.”

“I don’t believe I want to ski today,” said Daddy.

“Now, Ben, if you don’t ski today, you never will.”

Dad was up by the third try.

He later put on ski shows with his brother, doing stunts such as climbing on his shoulders. They tried at one point to pull Piggy up on skis, even tying together two boats to pull up his 250 plus pound frame. He was out of the water, cigar in mouth, laughing, when the rope broke.

Once my Uncle Hugh landed my dad and him a job teaching ski lessons in Carrollton. They were out on the small lake all day long, having success, until it came time for a very heavy set woman to learn. They tried and tried, but she just would not/could not come up on skis.

“How much are we getting paid for this?” Daddy finally asked Hugh.

When Hugh told him, Daddy said, “I don’t believe it’s worth it!”

Check back to find out how Piggy learned to fly.

Breaking up is hard to do

With school and sports in full swing, you may be thinking of starting a carpool. I've been involved with several through the years, some brief flirtations, and others long-term commitments. While they can save gas, parents, be aware that they don’t always end well.

When my daughter was in pre-school, I tried carpooling with a neighbor. It was not a match made in heaven. It seemed my car wasn't clean enough for her three-year-old, and the mother apparently had never heard of the child car seat law. Fortunately, we were not too invested. In fact, after I called it quits, I saw another mom picking her daughter up the very next day.

My next dysfunctional carpool experience came to a quick, and, thank God, not a violent end. She was a speeder. I didn't realize how bad it was until my daughter, a first-grader at the time, came home and said, "Mommy, Miss Terri’s always in a hurry. She drives so fast; she scares me!"

My most recent (and final) carpool was a long term commitment, spanning the five-year period when my daughter was in middle school to her sophomore year in high school. We started with four parties in our group; a year later, there were three. I can tell you, nothing is more political than a carpool. We had to delicately explain why we couldn't pick up Johnny next door anymore (His tuba just wouldn't fit in the car).

Carpooling requires a detailed schedule. And, believe me, you'd better keep up with it, or you'll be driving every week. I knew that things were starting to sour when we began arguing over the phone in the mornings about whose turn it was.

Once the kids were in high school, a different situation emerged. My daughter was in the band, so she didn't need a ride in the afternoon. However, I was expected to pick up their children when it was my week, even if it was just one of them.

Trust me, nothing builds resent more than having to wake up two younger children from their naps, and then fighting traffic, in order to pick up someone else's child--especially when it's an ungrateful one. If it's your own teen who sulks, slams the door and never says thank you, you can grin and bear it, remembering how cute he or she used to be, but when it's the kid up the street, not so much.

Added to the stress of the relationship was the fact that my child no longer got along with the other two. I had to referee arguments every morning, fighting the urge to make them all walk to school.

All of this leads to the inevitable break-up. I'll never forget the day I left my car pool. As I dropped one of the girls off, she assured me that her dad would pick her up. Apparently, she hadn't cleared that with him. He called me later irate that his daughter had to wait an hour after school.

"And, also," he added, "she doesn't like having to climb over those car seats. I have cut you some slack over the years because I know you have little kids."

Stunned, I mumbled an apology, hung up the phone and cried.

Later, I thought, "Why am I doing this? My daughter doesn't even need a ride in the afternoon. I haven't gotten anything out of this relationship in two years!"

I've been on my own ever since. Occasionally, I would hear a familiar honk and feel a little wistful, remembering those weeks when it was someone else's turn to drive, and I could stay in my pajamas past 7:30 a.m.

Sigh. Breaking up is hard to do.

Are you ready for some football?

You can feel it in the air...Men of all ages get a spring in their step; their eyes sparkle bit brighter; they become just plain giddy, really. No, it's not love...it's football season.

Football is a universal for men. They can sit and watch and never have to utter a word. When they do, it's in a strange language that I don't understand. I can listen to an entire conversation and not a understand a word they are saying. You know, they want to know the odds of such and such team; how so and so's offense is looking, followed by comments about the defense, the tight end, the quarterback, the safety (Do you ask about the safety?) I admit; that's all I got.

I've noticed more and more woman seem to be football fans. Some even claiming that they love it. Okay...if you say so...

Don't get me wrong. I like football. I grew up in a family of avid Georgia Bulldogs fans. Believe me, ever since my sister and I were young, we've cheered for the Dawgs. We learned pretty quickly that when they win, we had a much better weekend, including, perhaps, even a trip to Dairy Queen. My uncle is such a Dawgs fan, he would crawl up the stadium steps barking--completely sober. His pet was a Georgia mascot look alike, named, what else? UGA

I went to a Georgia game recently, and I enjoyed it. I love to tailgate, check out game day fashions, eat boiled peanuts, pet UGA after the game, and, oh, yeah, and cheer loudly when there's a touchdown. Other than that, I'm lost! I've tried to follow the game, but my mind always seems to wander, and my eyes get a little blurry.

At the last game, my husband and I had separate seats, so I was in charge of explaining what was going on to my young son. I felt like such an authority. Poor baby. He believed all the stuff I made up. But I'm sure he will soon be setting me straight.

Although I'm sure I should be more liberated, I'll happily serve up the wings and pop the tops on the brews. You, men, sit back and enjoy the game.

In the meantime, tennis, anyone??

Skiing like a pro: a tribute to Uncle Hugh

My young son learned to ski this weekend. Having grown up on the water, it’s a rite of passage in my family.

I remember my Uncle Hugh teaching me. He was a competitive water skier, who could do stunts to rival Cypress Gardens. He’d ski barefoot, just for the fun of it, take on the practice slalom course we had set up in the lake, not to mention trick ski. When Uncle Hugh would tire of skiing, he would take a ride on a homemade wooden saucer. Of course, he wouldn’t be content to just stand there and ride. He’d carefully climb a stepladder perched on top of the saucer, spinning wildly, being pulled 30 mph behind the boat, laughing and spitting tobacco the entire way.

We also had a ski jump that he made. (Most everything at the lake was welded by my uncle or grandfather, thus virtually indestructible.) Uncle Hugh would wake up and declare at the breakfast table, “I think I’m going to jump today.” We, children, would be dizzy from anticipation by the time he did it. When the ski jump wasn’t in use, we would climb up it, hauling a bucket of water to rinse it down and make it slippery, so we could slide.

Anyone who came to lake learned to ski. It wasn’t a matter of choice. Uncle Hugh had a way of encouraging, nagging, persuading, so that no matter how sore, tired, or how much water you swallowed, you would learn to ski. Once you fell, he would whip the boat around, drive in dangerously close and circle you repeatedly, while saying, “You did good, you hear, real good! Do it one more time with your knees bent and your arms straight. Let the boat pull you out of the water.”

Usually one of my four cousins, all girls who could ski like pros, would be in the water, encouraging the would-be skier sweetly. I can remember all I wanted to do was quit, but Uncle Hugh said try it one more time, and that’s what I did. What a great feeling it was to plane on top of the water.

Uncle Hugh suffered a severe head injury in a home accident some years ago and was in a coma for many months. Fortunately, he survived. He still has the same laugh, can still drive the boat, ski and enjoy the lake, although he may call you pumpkin all day long, as he did with my husband a few years ago.

I guess his lessons stuck with me because I heard myself repeating his words to my son, who was ready to give up after repeated falls face-first into the water.

“Mom, if I do it, can I be done?”

I was in the water with him, for morale support, and to help him keep his skis straight.

“He’ll try one more time,” I yelled at his dad. “Let the boat pull you up; don’t try to pull yourself up.”

“What's that? Oh, okay, I got it.” he said. And I could tell by his form that he did.

“Hit it,” I yelled.

And up he went, a tribute to my Uncle Hugh, who is still the best ski instructor I know.

You did good, you hear, real good.

A love af-FAIR

The fair is coming! The fair is coming! Nothing symbolizes the change of seasons more to me than cotton candy, the 4-H petting zoo and the tilt-a-whirl at the county fair.

Growing up, I went every year with my family, which we documented with family portraits. Each year, for a good eleven years, my mom and dad chunked down $2 to have an elderly couple take our Polaroid in their trailer in front of a colorful background.

Today, those photos are priceless. My sister goes from infant to pre-teen. I go from toothless to braces, dad from sideburns to balding, mom from bellbottoms and a rope belt to pantsuits. Speaking of fashion, apparently, dad had a special “going to the fair” shirt. He wore it at least four years in a row. On a side note, it’s never cute to dress siblings alike, especially when one is 4 ½ years older than the other!

I still love the fair, although I realize not everyone feels the same. My husband, for example, loathes it. He may not travel for a year, but fair week—he’s gone! Of course, not all my fair memories are good…

I remember when I was 14 years old. After weeks of pleading, I talked my parents into allowing me to walk across the street and up the hill to what is now the old fairgrounds. I felt so grown-up (Last year, I learned my dad followed me in his car and spied on me to make sure I got there safely!). It was a big day for me because the boy I had a HUGE crush on, Ronnie, was walking with our group. Just to be in his vicinity was a thrill for me.

After riding a few tamer rides, Ronnie announced he wanted to ride the Gravitron. No one else did, so Ronnie turned and asked me. Now, you must understand, this was the first thing he had said to me all afternoon, so even though I had to take dramamine before riding in the backseat to the store around the block, I agreed.

As the attendant fastened us in side by side, Ronnie’s hand brushed mine. What a perfect day. Here I was next to my dream guy; how wonderful. Then the room began to spin faster and faster as the music blared. The pressure of the centrifugal force, equivalent to four times the force of gravity, pushed us against the wall as the floor dropped out from under us. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so romantic.

After something close to an eternity, the ride stopped. The force released us, and I stumbled for the door, shoving people out of the way, as I went.

“Wait, Leigh!” I heard Ronnie call.

I waved at him to go on and staggered behind the ride. Perhaps he thought I meant for him to follow, so he could steal a kiss, or perhaps he just wanted to check on me. Either way, when he found me, I was leaning over with my hands on my knees. My head was spinning wildly and not from love.

He grabbed my hand and asked, “Do you want to ride again?”

To which I responded by vomiting on his shoes. That was the most embarrassing moment of my life.

Things may not have worked out with Ronnie and me, but the fair still has a special place in my heart. But, you know, the more I think about it, maybe I will find a reason to be out of town this year!

Ending the inner Mommy War

Since the announcement of the Republican vice presidential pick, Sarah Palin, a lot has been said about the so-called “Mommy Wars.” Having worked full time for eight years while raising a child, followed by eight years of being a stay-at-home mom (I hate that expression as a day without having to leave the house was, and continues to be, a luxury), I feel I can weigh in on the subject.

In my experience, I’ve learned that whether it is being president of the PTA or CEO of a corporation, women are competitive. And we are also our own worst critics.

I must admit, as a working mom, the pressure (or guilt) I felt came mainly from within. Sure, I heard a few stay-at-home moms do a tsk, tsk, when I brought in store-bought goods for the bake sale. But what I hated the most was dropping my daughter off at day care before school opened, so she could be bused to school each day. And I detested being the last one to pick her up from after school care. The worst kick in the pants was when she didn’t win several awards during her first grade year because her mommy had forgotten to turn in the paperwork.

The irony of it all is my daughter never complained. She was, and, at 18, continues to be, one of the overall happiest people I know. She was proud that I worked and has a developed a good work ethic herself.

On the flip side, as a stay-at-home mom, I again felt great pressure. Not from working moms, not from other moms, but from myself. I always thought I had to throw the biggest birthday parties with homemade cakes and over-the-top decorations, including homemade piñatas. One party was so extraordinary, not to mention overwhelming, that my daughter hid in her room.

(Don’t worry; she has fully recovered from that childhood trauma, and I now have a sign in my kitchen that reads, “Martha Stewart don’t live here.”)

After suffering from some health issues (now fully recovered) after my third child, I found a way to work from home, occasionally going into a corporate office. Today, I have finally found a happy balance between work and home, but only after I stopped holding myself up to impossibly high standards. Working moms and stay-at-home moms should unite and do the same for Sarah Palin--and themselves.

Rise and shine

I recently overheard a co-worker complaining that women are always late, which got me to thinking…We certainly have the reputation, but do we deserve it?

Let’s compare a typical woman’s morning schedule with say that of her husband’s. Granted there our exceptions, or at least in my dreams there are, but for most women I know, their morning starts a little like this…

Rise and shine (2 hrs. 15 minutes before departure)

Stumbles to kitchen, makes the coffee for husband, tea for herself

Feeds the barking dog, reminds self to take him to obedience school as he jumps on her

Wakes up the children

Does a load of laundry while she is upstairs

Unloads dishwasher, sees that it’s still not cleaning as it should, so she rewashes the dishes by hand

Starts breakfast, notices they are out of milk, makes a run to the convenience store, while telling the kids to get dressed

Gets gas while at the convenience store

Comes back to find kids still in pajamas on couch

Sets table, serves breakfast, washes dishes again

Tells kids to get dressed NOW

Gets paper and waters ferns on the porch

Tells son that he has his shirt on backwards and inside out

Tells him so are his pants

Asks daughter if she has brushed her hair

Tells her to go brush it some more

Packs lunches

Goes to take a shower, sees that husband has beat her to it

Checks e-mail, sees reminder to send in baked goods to school, bags up 20 pairs of Oreos

Irons skirt for the day

Answers phone; it’s the neighbor, she wants to borrow two eggs, plus she really needs someone to talk to about her sick aunt, consols her while looking at the clock

Gets in the shower, realizes teenage daughter has taken her shampoo, yells for the kids (no answer), yells for husband (no answer), grabs a towel and streaks unnoticed across the house to get the shampoo from upstairs, while husband and kids watch TV

Gets back in shower, takes it quickly before the hot water runs out

Puts on the recently ironed skirt

Notices it “shrunk” in the closet and no longer fits

Stares at clothes in closet, waiting for something to jump out at her

Tries on 4-5 more outfits until she finds the right one, while vowing to clean out her closet, not to mention exercise more and lose weight

Blows dry hair

Reminds kids to put on shoes

Applies make-up

Double knots son’s shoes

Brushes teeth, reminds kids to do the same

Listens to son relay latest Star War video game adventure and then tells him and his sister to wait outside for you

Puts on shoes (Okay, she tries on several pairs)

Gets a Band-Aid for son who fell outside and scrapped his leg

Turns off TV

Locks doors

Turns off clothes dryer

Takes out meat to thaw for dinner

Hears husband honking, so she runs out the door, while putting on her earrings and grabbing the sunglasses he forgot

Opens the truck door just in time to hear him say, “Women! They are never on time!”

Husband’s morning:

Rolls over as wife gets up

Dreams peacefully until he smells coffee brewing and bacon frying

Gets up 15 minutes before time to go

Takes hot shower, combs hair

Picks up clothes he wore yesterday off the bathroom floor

Puts them on

Sits down at table, eats breakfast, drinks milk, reads paper

Watches TV

Brushes teeth

Gets in truck and honks for wife to hurry up while muttering, “Women! They are never on time!”