Saturday, February 26, 2005

The Day Begins

The day begins with a whisper.  I look out the window and wonder if the daylight is coming or whether I have hours to wait.  The sky is grey-blue and brilliantly lit with moonlight.  Softly, very softly, the sky lightens to grey.  If there are clouds, and I can shift in bed to see them without disturbing Ellen, I watch them turn from black to orange to maroon and then lighten, revealing their whiteness that seemed impossible just minutes ago.

It is quiet.  There are only a handful of us left here on the beach.  The sea is quiet; there are no waves and no wind.  The tide is high and the fishermen don’t leave til afternoon and the morning is silent.  I shift again and think of coffee.  I wonder when Ellen will awake and demand"nipsea".  More often than not, she wakes long before I expect her to; before I’m ready to share the day.

The day begins with a whine.  Ellen has awakened before the sun has risen and as hard as I try to convince her that it isn’t day, she announces, "it is DAYTIME mom" and demands "nipsea".  She nurses and I hope fervently that she will fall back to sleep and I can catch just a little bit more sleep.  Not once has this worked, but every morning I hope anew.  I think of coffee and after enduring the entire family piled in "my" bed, I clean the room, stow the comforters (in a futile attempt to keep them sand free) and start coffee.  Demands for one breakfast item after another; I’ve now adopted a menu of one item.  It is not always the same item, but the days of "short order cook" are over.  I have a beach to enjoy.  

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