We have made our company move to Washington, Connecticut. The Airbnb is about thirty minutes from the performance venue. Yesterday it was 93 degrees with a heat advisory in effect. On our way into town we rotated song suggestions with the theme hot girl summer. On our way back I imagined what would happen if a deer jumped from the dense woods surrounding the road and collided with a Honda Civic going 58 mph. I am always surprised at these pockets of the Northeast that remind me so much of Kentucky—good green farmland and rustic houses set far back from winding roads. Our Airbnb is one such house; with enough rooms that we can spend hours sequestered away from each other, toiling away on whatever pursuits keep us occupied until call time. Two people can cook in the kitchen at the same time and there are trees outside of every window. It is bright and restful and the kind of house that makes me want to be a person who bakes. It is particularly charming in the morning.
I have never been a morning person. As a baby that was a desirable trait, I was a good sleeper, but as a child who had to get up at 5:30 in order to catch the bus to school this was a clear impediment. My mom’s approach to parenting was to make me as independent as possible in each stage of my life. If it was possible for me to do it myself, it became my responsibility. This presented many pros and cons. Con: I had to pack my own lunch (tedious) and sometimes I felt sad that there were no little notes saying have a good day love mom. Pro: I could sneak extra sweets in said lunch and my sandwiches always had the right peanut butter to bread ratio.
Until I “abused the privilege,” I was in charge of my bedtime and morning routines. I approached the task the way I thought anyone would, looking to maximize time for what I wanted to do, i.e read and sleep, and minimize time dedicated to boring things like showering, brushing my teeth, and dragging myself out of bed to get ready for school. At night I would pack my lunch with two oatmeal cream pies and then go sit naked on the floor of the bathroom to read while the shower ran. After wetting my towel and face to sell the illusion, I would do the same with my toothbrush, running it under the faucet and splashing some water around the rim of the sink to sell the scene of diligent dental care. Finally the pièce de résistance: I’d get fully dressed in my school uniform to go to sleep. I would say goodnight with my robe tightly sashed and covering me from throat to ankle. With everything prepared, I could wake up and be out the door in under twelve minutes, winning me up to three 9-minute alarm snoozes. Completely worth it. Of course, around the time my mom discovered that I had a ring of dirt around my neck and my dentist announced that I had seven cavities, she also caught me crawling into bed in kakis and a buttoned polo shirt. I became much more closely monitored.
In high school I continued to hedge my mornings. By this point I had become a novelty at sleepovers for talking in my sleep. On many occasions, I would hold semi-coherent conversations while still unconscious; my mom would come downstairs an hour after I said I was getting ready to find me fast asleep and woefully late for school. My saving grace was that my high school operated on a rotating morning schedule so I never missed the same class twice. Also, once you were five minutes late the tardy was marked, so I often thought in for a penny in for a pound and stopped across the street for a breakfast sandwich and coffee.
I didn’t run into problems until senior year. After I got in to college, school felt very optional. I never missed calculus on Thursday mornings because it was my hardest subject and I had a crush on my teacher, but other than that I spent most of my mornings sleeping at my best friend’s house while she and her siblings went to school and her mom retired to her second floor office unaware of the stray eighteen-year-old who’d set up camp in her basement. Just like nine years prior, my schemes caught up with me. Fortunately, I intercepted the letter from truancy court before my mom opened it. I had signed her name so often and our names are so similar that I practically adopted her signature as my own. With a forged excuse I avoided court and started setting alarms at more frequent intervals.
As an adult, I have become less resistant to the morning as long as it’s on my terms. During a recent visit, my mom wondered out loud how I would ever live with anybody. There are only three people outside of family that I’ve elected to spend mornings with: my best friend, my ex-boyfriend, and one other man. Siduri, the same best friend who secretly harbored me in high school, is unable to sleep past six. She busies herself reading and knitting and generally being a peaceful productive member of society for about three hours before she wakes me by putting a mug of coffee directly into my hand. She then retreats and leaves me to become a human for another thirty minutes. After many failed attempts at pleasant conversation, my ex settled for recounting his favorite animes to me without any expectation of response—it was like listening to a live podcast. The last was also ok with my morning silence. He would make coffee and my social grace would take me as far as drinking it at the table before I left to take the thirty-minute subway ride back to my own bed.
Lately, my days are at the mercy of several different projects and people. Mornings have become an oasis for the first time in my life. Waking early is not only good for being physically alone, but it allows me time before emails from my contract job about travel arrangements for finicky artists, before texts about why the latest rough cut of my film doesn’t feel quite right, or calls from family about my Thanksgiving plans. I am still not a morning person, but the early hours offer the kind of solitude that doesn’t ask you to be any type of person at all. Just another animal roused by the sun and in search of sustenance.
In this house I wake up in the little room I chose for myself, the one with the smallest bed. The pervasive summer humidity has curled the cover of my book on the bedside table. It looks as if, while I was sleeping, the book developed a will of its own to bend upwards in a greeting wave. I leave the white linen curtains pulled back so that soft early sunlight can filter in, falling on the little wooden desk with one drawer, the dresser that comes just to my collarbone, the incongruous faux-wood bedside table. I tiptoe over creaking floors and wind down the narrow wrought iron staircase to the kitchen. I throw out yesterday’s coffee grounds and start the fresh pot that only one other cast member and I drink throughout the day. I unload the dishwasher, hand wash the cutting boards and pots. Rinse the sink. Collect the bottles and cans left out from the post-show come down. Restore the beginning of the day to a room that hosted its end.
Let this be a teachable moment for all parents.... too much trust in the children too early will lead to a neck dirt ring! %-/
I share your opinion about mornings, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised by these revelations! I found myself laughing as I pictured "little" Mia being so sneaky! Then I thought, "Did I contribute to your antics by creating the reading bedtime ritual from an early age?" Not guilty I decided because you have the love of books and that developed into a love of writing -- which by the way you excel in both!
PS. Mom did turn you into a pretty awesome, responsible adult!