I will never be a morning person. I love the still of the night too much. And I go out of my way to stay up just a bit past my bed time every night. Always a bit too long.
For this I pay dearly every morning. Anton wakes up whenever his heart desires. There is no method to his madness. It could be 8:00AM, a rare and much coveted blessing. Most of the time, though, it is somewhere between 4:30 and 6:30AM. That is just evil.
He shoots into action as soon as he opens his eyes too. Bam! He’s standing up, rocking back and forth in his crib, demanding his milk! ‘Da-DA! DA-DAAA!!!’ I’ll take an alarm clock over that kind of wake up call any day.
I barely open up my eyes and think of coffee (or at least tea), which will not be served. I think that I should get to the gym, so my legs wouldn’t feel so heavy as I drag them along. I open the door into his room, and there he is. Pure morning joy gleaming out of his eyes, happy to see me, happy to be awake and hungry. And then I briefly forget how tired I am.
He takes his bottle in the rocking chair, thank you very much. Once that’s done he’s off to do his morning rounds, like a little Casper in the twilight. I often chase him with the camera as part of an improvised morning gymnastic routine, but he’s too quick, the lighting too dark, the autofocus too slow… Some times, though, I catch a glimpse of the little ghost. Beaming. Wielding his towels around like a two-sworded samurai. Basking in the scarce morning light. Maybe the little ghost knows something I don’t know.