I don’t care, I love it
“I don’t care; I love
it!”
I could faintly hear my
cell phone blaring to the left of my ear. The choice selection was intended to
be an upbeat and positive way to wake me up in the morning. The music had
failed its intention. My brain and hearing sensors have grown immune to the
tune, to the beat, to the chants, to the bells and the whistles of this
youthfully rebellious anthem of summers ago.
“Ugh!!” I grunted as my hand slammed
the snooze button. My hand had had a mind of its own and it knew exactly where
the snooze button on my phone would be.
I realized how late it really was when I still
had not got out of bed 5 minutes after the alarm completely gave up on me and
shut up. The dead silence in my room was the real alarm that woke me. I glanced around looking for a purpose to
start my day, before I realized I had a mission and I was extremely late. I sit up on my bed and rub my eyes as my feet
felt for my pink fuzzy slippers scattered somewhere close. I make my way to the
adjacent door on the opposite side of my room where my daughters’ room is and
peek through the door. In the far corner
of the room was a queen size bed pushed against the corner of the wall. Above the bed “LOVE – PEACE – HOPE” was
painted on the wall in Script. On the
left wall was a painting- a day version of Vincent Van Gogh “Starry Night” in
vivid bright colors. Underneath the heap that laid on the queen size bed was my
daughter Josephine.
“Joey, Baby how do you feel?” I ask
with concern. A pale face with honey colored eyes and dirty blond cropped hair
lowers the blankets down to her chin.
“My throat hurts Mom.” She whispers
then she raised her comforter over her mouth, bundling herself more from the
cold morning air.
Joey had left her window slightly
open in the night before claiming to need air and now the room was quite chilly.
I knew better but she insisted. She was a 15 year old that thinks she knows
everything, Instead of giving her a lecture, due to the fact that I was running
late, I showed her empathy and told her she could stay home from school. I quickly turned on my heels and tended to my
mission.
I raced to the bathroom to perform my
morning vanity and necessary rituals before dashing back into my bedroom to
wake up my 4 year old daughter Bree.
“Good Morning Beautifulllll,” I sing
almost whispering, as if I was trying to awaken a mighty dragon. I wait…
“Good morning, Bree…” I raise my
voice slightly and brace myself, not knowing what to expect. Bree’s eyes fluttered. Her little hand gentle
reached my face and cradled my cheek.
“Good morning Mommy.” Like a melody
out of a antique music box chimed the curly hair little fairy.
