Post #4 of 40

Giving up the morning perk

My parents always said I was born a morning person. It became my identity.

They said I would wake up famished, bubbly, and talkative.

I remember Saturdays in the 1970s when I would wake up before anyone else, put non-sugared cereal in a bowl, pour the milk, put the cereal bowl on a tray, and walk gingerly down the steps to the basement den with the green shag carpeting.

With no one to talk to except Ringo, the collie, I’d put my tray on a TV tray with the foldable legs, and then I’d find the cartoons on either ABC, NBC, or CBS - Channels 2, 4, and 5. Those were the three channels we had - along with Channel 8, PBS. When my older sister arose and descended the steps with her cereal, we would argue over who got the papasan chair and watch cartoons and the School Hour Rock snippets until about 10am. I probably instigated the arguments over the chair just so I could interact with a human being.

When my husband and I got married in 1986, we moved in together and began figuring out the dances that occur at transitions.

What happens when the second person gets up?
What happens when the second person gets home from work?
What happens when the first person is ready to go to bed?

I was almost always the first to get up each morning. I’d pop the top on my Diet Coke and read the newspaper in the early days. I might run a load of laundry or take a walk. No internet was there to tempt me down a rabbit hole. An hour or so later, Tom would emerge, make coffee and get started on his day - quietly.

Our baby-making days began in 1991, four and a half years after we had married. We had hoped for a baby earlier, but that wasn’t in the cards, so as soon as I was cleared by the doctor after Rebecca’s birth, we began hoping for our next child. In just 15 months, my morning routine changed from waking up with a Diet Coke and the newspaper to waking up with Rebecca’s “Mommy, I’m ‘ungry,” Elizabeth’s newborn cry, and the need to change two sets of diapers.

I recalled my earlier bubbly morning days, the ones of my childhood, and I thought about the way my parents and sister lovingly teased me about my sunrise energy. And, somehow (and for some reason), I reached into my soul and silently named myself the perky morning one.

My job was to be the inspiration for these two little girls and their dad.
My job was to make sure that they saw the essence of joy and sunshine.
My job was to sing morning songs to brighten their transition to the day.
My job was to start their day “right.”

Now, those of you who are not morning people are now rolling your eyes at me and thinking about how my well-intentioned morning habits were hard on those who experienced them. And, my sweet family can share whether I am exaggerating or not.

In 1998, we welcomed baby Thomas (now 6’4”), and the pressure was even higher for me. I had big career goals - a move from teaching to administration. My hours increased (as did my stress). What skills I didn’t have that I would need to eventually become a head of school, I set out to learn. I took a seat on a board and a position on my church’s personnel committee. I directed summer camps, took classes, and became the school’s first Director of Publications - in addition to teaching full time.

After a few years, my strategic gathering of skills paid off, and my dream was realized as I become head of a diverse, progressive K-8 school in Birmingham (Mountain Brook), Alabama. With a house just a few minutes from the school, we didn’t have to wake up super-early. The sounds that the kids heard first thing each morning came from a repertoire of morning songs lovingly shared by their favorite (I hope) mezzo soprano.

The hours and time on duty or on call increased when I was head of school, and I really wanted a vacation in 2010. Tom couldn’t take time off that summer, so I registered for a week-long workshop at Kripalu to learn how to demonstrate healthful cooking - a skill I wanted, but didn’t “need.” It was my first solo “vacation.” At Kripalu, the breakfasts are silent. No talking. No singing. No perking people up.

Yes, I am a word person, but I don’t have the words to describe the way a week of silent mornings affected me. I had scoffed at the idea of silent mornings, thought it was silly, but, after a week, my lifelong identity had changed.

I had given up the morning perk.

I flew home to Alabama, continued to wake up before the others, but it was summer, and no one had to get up early. I sang no songs, demonstrated no perkiness, and bore no responsibility for others’ morning joy. Elizabeth and Thomas were the only kids home at the time, and after an explanation, they got used to my quiet persona. Rebecca returned from a year in Adana, Turkey a few weeks later. I suppose I told her about my new morning routine, but maybe I didn’t.

In the midst of re-entry, she quietly walked to me one morning, and asked, “Are you okay? The way you’re so quiet in the mornings is so strange.”

I reminded her that by the time she graduated from high school, my morning perkiness had annoyed her. Still, it had been comforting to her, and now this new routine was one more thing to throw her. We laughed about how my morning perk had bothered her, but now the morning quiet did, too.

Eventually, the family got used to my quiet self. And, they knew they were responsible for their own morning joy. I have kept up these quiet mornings for thirteen years now with no plans of changing.