The first reminder that the day is new comes from the tune of an alarm alongside my bed.
“Ugh,” I muffle, as I burrow deeper into my bedding. My husband still sound asleep.
A snooze is 9 minutes. Precisely. A few snoozes are in store for this morning as the night before brought parent/teacher conferences until 8:00 pm. It seemed I just left school and here my alarm was blaring that I needed to go back.
“No worries,” I calm myself, as I begin planning my outfit in my mind. A black pair of pants hang in my closet and a sweater on my shelf, both, I know are clean. They might not even require ironing. Ten minutes is saved right there. Dreamland calls me back to paradise.
Already. I thought I’d just hit that snooze. Geez. I’m not getting up yet. There’s plenty of time. I don’t need to be at school at 7:00 am today. I’m giving myself a break. I’m pretty convincing to myself.
Rolling over, my husband stirs, unshaken by the alarms and my snoozes. I wrap my arm around him and dig underneath his fleece army blanket that he prefers to sleep beneath. My own coverings of quilts I push off. Each of us have contrasting preferences for nighttime blankets. I need heaviness and he, light.
“You are wrapped up in there like Fort Knox,” he teases at night when I get ready for bed.
School dreams take me away this time. My third graders are at gym and I can’t find the way there.
Again. Is there any way I can stretch the snoozes to be longer?
“Why don’t you just set your alarm for later?” my husband frequently asks, trying to remedy my problem.
“Because. I like to have some warnings,” I profess. “Snoozes give me a chance to feel like I get extra sleep.”
The snooze button is tapped again. I snuggle back up to my husband, who is cool to the touch.
“Aren’t you cold? You need more covers,” I mother him.
He ignores me and continues to slumber. His scent of clorine from swimming takes me back to high school, he on the swim team and I, his girl friend.
The alarm frustrated by now. The spring sky growing lighter.
“I have to get up,” I whisper to my husband.
“What? Just five more minutes,” as he rolls over to wrap his arm around me.
Easily swayed, “I guess I don’t need to wash my hair today. I washed it yesterday,” I remind myself . A benefit of long hair.
Snooze #9. Seriously.
Oh for Pete’s Sake.
“I have to go,” I urge my husband.
“Just one more snooze,” he begs.
He really has no idea what time it is and how many snoozes have gone by, not needing to be at work until 8:00.
Gone are the years of babies and night time feedings, waking children for daycare or dressing and feeding kids for school. No longer are teenagers blaring music at night or sneaking in the door in the early morning hours. Empty nesters, we play this game now. Who can stay in bed the longest and still get to work? (Still following our rule that if you are not there early, you’re late.)
I am grateful we made it to this place in our marriage. The “children years” test every aspect of a marriage and when the offspring take wing, a couple is weary and sometimes decide to trail off on their separate paths. We persevered.
The morning snuggles with legs intertwined and rhythmic breathing. I’m sure this is what heaven is like. I whisper to God, thanking Him for mornings. . . and my husband. . . and his love.
And snooze buttons.