Rise and Shine

I am a morning person.

My husband might try to protest this statement, but it is a fact that I love the mornings. I might look like death lying next to him when the alarm starts blaring, I might swat him away as he tries to wake me, and I might threaten to divorce him if he doesn't turn the lights back off. But that doesn't mean I'm not a morning person.

As a child, I always awoke extremely early. Typically before the sun was shining. My siblings were asleep, my mother was asleep, even our dog was asleep. But I sprung out of bed impossibly early and bounced into the kitchen where I would always find my father blowing on a steaming cup of black coffee.

On Saturday mornings when I was really young, still in a carrier carseat, my father would bundle me up and take me to the donut shop. He would set the carseat on a table and allow the elderly regulars to fuss over me while he purchased a few donuts and a smoldering cup of coffee. He would sit and eat, talking to me as I blinked back at him from behind the five point harness.

On Saturday mornings, when I was a toddler, my father would watch Garfield and Friends with me while I ate my cereal. He would sit beside me on the couch, reading the paper and cautiously sipping on a piping hot cup of coffee.

When I was a little older, perhaps 10, my father thought it was time for me to grow up. And all grown ups burn their tender tongues each morning on a scalding cup of coffee. I was reluctant at first. But my father had a plan to make me his coffee companion. He would get out two coffee mugs. Fill one to the brim with boiling, black liquid. In the other cup, he would put a splash of coffee, perhaps no more than a tablespoon, and fill the rest with milk. And there we sat, my father and I, hours before the rest of our family awoke, sharing a pot of coffee. Over time, the ratio of coffee to milk slowly started to even. By the time I was 14, I was drinking a full cup of straight, black coffee every morning. And it's been that way ever since.

Our mornings together weren't just on the weekends. My father was up with me every morning during the week. He made my breakfast, took me to school and made sure I got the day started off right. Growing up in the country, we had plenty of land but no garage, so our cars were subjected to the brutality of Oklahoma weather. Sometimes, even in the early mornings, the car was hot and muggy and we sweated all the way to school. Other times, the car was the perfect temperature and we were able to ride to school with the windows down and The Commitments' rendition of Mustang Sally blaring. But typically, and it sure seemed like every single morning, my father's vehicle was covered in a sheet of ice.

On mornings like that, we would get in the car and my dad would start the engine and sit patiently waiting for the vents to spit out even a tiny breath of heat. He took this as a sign we were minutes away from warmth and would put the car in reverse. Despite the fact that the entire Jeep was completely covered in a thick sheet of opaque ice, he'd blindly back the car out anyway.

"We have to face East," he'd say.

And I'd nod knowingly through the sound of my chattering teeth.

He'd carefully turn the car completely around, until we were facing East, and then put the car in park.

"You tell me when," he'd say, patiently sitting there, unscrewing the lid to his thermos of bubbling coffee. And I would do what I did every freezing, school-day morning: I'd stare at the windshield, waiting for it to glisten.

After a few minutes of watching a layer of ice an inch thick not change in the slightest, I'd instruct my father to get closer to the sun. He'd put his thermos in the cup holder, throw the car in drive, and inch slowly down our half-mile, dirt road driveway. When we would slowly creep into a part of the driveway where the sun was able to break through the trees and slightly brighten the thick layer of ice in front of us, I'd yell, "Stop! Right here!"

If we waited long enough, if we possessed just the right amount of patience--much like the patience it took my father over the years to reduce my milk intake and increase my coffee consumption--we could see the windshield start to glisten. It would sparkle, just slightly, down near the wipers. Amateurs would take this as a sign it was time to turn the wipers on. But my father and I had become seasoned professionals. Eventually, the glistening would get brighter and wider, like a plate of diamonds in the sun. But still, we waited. The ice would start to break away, making small holes in which we could finally see out of the thick sheet of ice. But still, we waited. And then, because it's a gut instinct to know the right time to flip on the windshield wipers, I'd turn to my father and nod. And he would nod back, and turn them on. If we were victorious, and we almost always were, the wipers would rid the entire windshield of ice in one quick motion. We would shout out with excitement, high five and make our way to school.

It wasn't until college that I even knew ice scrapers existed.


Early in my relationship with my husband, we met at a coffee shop one morning. The romance was still new and giggly and I was, perhaps, looking for the big red flag in an otherwise ideal mate. When we got up to the counter, I ordered my usual: a black coffee. The barista looked at me somewhat confused, but agreed to comply. Then Jim stepped up to the counter and ordered a venti, double-shot, peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream. The barista seemed relieved.

I panicked.

Eventually, despite his extremely fussy taste in coffee, we married. And within our first year of marriage, we endured one of Oklahoma's harshest winters. I awoke one morning to an unfamiliar sound. Clawing and scraping sounds that only occur in terrifying campfire stories. I crept out of our bedroom, down the hall, into the living room and peeked out the window. There I saw a truly horrific sight: my husband, standing out in the snow, scraping ice from my windshield.

I flung open the door in my pjs and yelled out to him: "Stop!! STOP IT!" He looked up at me, confused as to why his extremely chivalrous act was garnering such an angry reaction from me.

When our daughter was born, my husband struggled to get enough quality time with her. I was with her every day, all day, and he was desperate to find comparable one-on-one time with her. Eventually, and organically, Jim started getting up with Lowery on Saturday mornings. He found it was the best time of the day to spend with his daughter. Of course, my husband cannot make the extremely creative and inventive breakfasts my father can (I recommend the Myers McMuffin or the Skittles and Grits), networks no longer run episodes of Garfield, and our house has a garage.

But despite that, my husband has created his own routine with our daughter. For the past two years, my husband has gotten up every Saturday morning with our child. Together they watch Scooby-Doo while she eats oatmeal and he drinks coffee with a Snickers bar floating in it. Every Friday evening she goes to bed with Jim whispering in her ear that the following morning they will play together.

I envy her.

Even though my father no longer makes my breakfast, pours my coffee or drives me to school, mornings are still time reserved for him. Recently on Saturday mornings, I awake to the sound of silence. The absence of giggling or cartoons blaring always lets me know that my child and husband have left the house. They've gotten up before the sunrise, and they are venturing out on their newest tradition: walking hand in hand to the local donut shop. So I spend my Saturday mornings the only way I know how. I pour myself a piping hot cup of black coffee, I sit on the couch and, with my phone, I reach out to the only other person I know is awake.

It's not as magical as sitting across the table from him. Or as comforting as his Bombshell Biscuits or Omelet Surprise. Or as exciting as driving blindly to school in an ice covered box. But in those Saturday mornings, while my husband is out with our daughter, I sit alone sipping coffee and exchanging texts with my dad. And I'm comforted by the thought that my husband is now providing my child with what my father has always given me:

A reason to get up in the morning.