The Lights are On and Everybody's Home

Saturday mornings used to be sacred. Saturday mornings were when the world was simple, pure and delightful. Saturday mornings were the Age of Aquarius, the Millennial Kingdom, the Golden Age, and the Temporal Utopia, all rolled into one -- at least between 5am and 8am. That was when I was the only one up in the house and I had those few precious, solitary, peaceful, quiet, utterly lovely hours all to myself.

All that has changed now. Like a biological Loch Ness monster, some long dormant gene in L has raised its ugly head from the sleepy depths of her chromosomal pool, such that now nothing, including genes, stays dormant in our house beyond 5am on any given morning. On good days I am awakened at 5:00am (5:30am at the outside), to WAAAAY too loud and cheerful songs, filled with joy and chipperness, as L sings N awake with her 3-year-old off-key caterwaul, in a what I can only think of as a twisted, inverted Mary Poppins thing.

Less welcome are the mornings I awake to the clanking of pots and pans and other riotous noises from the kitchen. As I lumber down the hall in the dregs of my ursine half-hibernation I'm greeted with every light in the entire house full-ablaze. The kitchen is usually dripping on all sides as L has pulled out half of all our cookware and filled it with water (L's rather thin version of oatmeal). There are often plates or bowls at each spot on the table, commonly chock full of soggy Cheerios and milk or some other such foul cereal pudding. You can always tell how full (and heavy) the milk jugs were (emphasis on the past tense), by the size of the white pool at the base of the refrigerator door.

Yes, yes. Her love for her brother and family is touching, and her desire to assist her Mommy is charming, and all that garbage. But can't the daily assault hold back for just another hour or two?

I want to join a union just so I can file a grievance.