Cheerios and Homework

When I was a kid, I could nearly sleep the clock around. Go to bed about midnight and, barring a bomb going off next to me, rouse at ten or eleven the next morning. Now, an empty stomach, full bladder, or my internal alarm, has me up before the clock's rubbed the sleep from its eyes. If you ask the pros, they'll tell you our sleep cycle undergoes certain changes over time. If you ask me, they have too much time on their hands.

Over the past year or so, I've grown very fond of waking up with the world. When the only sounds, aside from Denver's classical radio stream (KVOD), are the occasional bird and the pad of the cat's feet as he runs from window to window, chasing it. When life is just starting to stretch languidly and shake the dew from its face.

Someday I'm going to have to build a house with a breakfast nook and windows that open onto a field or forest. An outcropping of kitchen where you can take a cup of coffee, fresh muffins, and the laptop, and be surrounded by morning light. Maybe have skylights so that, late at night when mother nature calls, you can sit with a glass of water under the stars.

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

That would be nice. A little piece of peace and quiet. A place where children splatter milk and Cheerios, where supper is loud, boisterous, and overflowing with six conversations at once. Where the evening table is covered with papers penciled with arithmetic problems and surrounded by puzzled brains. Where mom comes with tea before bed and dad with words before sunrise.

A place like that would be very nice, indeed. I think the cat would like it, too.


(Image by Getty Images via Daylife)