The alarm goes off. It’s 4:30 a.m. I usually reach over and snooze it, and then the other alarm goes off, which forces my husband out of bed on a search-and-destroy mission. How far he goes depends on where he left his jeans (his cell phone alarm is more jarring than mine). He lumbers off to the kitchen in a somnolent daze, and I curl up around our incredibly geriatric dog, who is snoring loudly, blissfully unaware of the early morning darkness. When I wake her, she quietly yowl-snarls. It’s the most adorable combination of sounds, a clear note of displeasure coming from a pup. I place her on the floor and watch her waddle off to find her daddy to insist that it’s breakfast time.
This is how mornings begin at the House of Elsie.
While he makes us both a cup of tea, I gather together white clothes and towels to pack for a trip to the gym. I set out everything for both of us, unders and all. He’s particular - he wants one type of unders for the workout, another for wearing during the day. We fill our backpacks, he hands me a hot cup of tea (mine not nearly as hot as his), and we leave for the gym. The toad that lives next to our porch peeps as I lock the door. At this hour, the road to the gym is almost entirely ours, and we admire the moon together.
Once worked out and showered, we return to the house. He feeds the pup and folds laundry while I fix us eggs, oatmeal with nuts and fruit, and a fruit smoothie. It’s funny...I always seem to miraculously have clean clothes, and he always somehow has a hot meal. We never talked about it...it just happened that way. While we eat breakfast, we talk home projects, politics, plants, pets, career dreams, finances...whatever comes to mind. Meanwhile, one of the cats bounces between our laps like a furry ping-pong ball, anxious for some petting and a little respite from the dog, who scavenges below for breakfast shrapnel windfalls.
Since Mr. ElsieElsie eats faster than a fireman, he gets up to start the dishes and steals my spoon before I’ve finished my smoothie. This used to mildly annoy me. I’ve learnt not to sweat the small stuff; now I expect it, and it makes me smirk. He just gets another spoon for me without missing a beat.
He heads off to do more pet chores while I water African violets. When he comes back to the kitchen for more tea, I look up and realize that the morning is getting away from us. I remind him he has a 9:00 meeting, and start to pack my lunch. A kiss and "I love you", and he’s out the door. A few minutes later, I’m on my way to work, too.
People ask me why on Earth we get up at 4:30 in the morning, and I’ve never had a good answer for them, other than to tell them that I love long mornings with my husband. When we sleep in, I feel I’ve missed out on the best part of our day – the part we invest in ourselves, our lives, our bodies, our marriage.
Even if the California Supreme Court rules in favor of those who want us to fail, and takes away our marriage certificate, they can’t take away our mornings. While we wait in legal purgatory, I hold tightly to that, and hope that the Court, and even the h8ers, know that more than anything, it’s love that makes a marriage. Morning after morning, it’s what makes ours.