Kathleen McCall:
Occasional�� Muse�

2001-05-01 - 12:17 p.m.

Huhh? 'Smorning Already? Noooo...

Genetically, it's really not possible. Genetically, I would be more likely to have given birth to a fruit fly. But somehow, it happened: I gave birth to a Morning Person.

If I were a father, I would wonder if she were mine. But as a mother, I distinctly remember (oh how distinctly I remember) giving birth to her myself. And I did not have her before nine o'clock in the morning, I can assure you. Although I did have her before my first cup of coffee, because they would not give me any, and I probably would have thrown it up if they had, and when they finally gave me some after she was born it was lukewarm hospital coffee in a blue plastic cup and it was, as I recall, the best thing I have ever tasted in my life. So I'm quite sure she's mine.

I can hear her now, as I sit at the keyboard. She doesn't set an alarm; she doesn't need one. She's up and chipper, getting dressed while humming to herself, and in a minute she will come out all ready for school and ask for her breakfast. She will also start a nonstop line of chatter about what we'll do today, what happened yesterday at school, and by the way isn't the Civil War fascinating? And her younger sister and I will stare at her with a mixture of sleepy bafflement and loathing. What planet did she come from?

I clutch my coffee cup and her sister clutches her apple juice, and we both have "Do NOT speak to me under penalty of death" clearly tattooed across our sheet-creased faces. As it should be. Mornings, after all, are a painful tranistion time, where one must move from the supine-quilt position to the upright-pay the bills position, and this is not something to be undertaken lightly, or done with such speed that that one experiences painful brainlash. My younger daughter will be a sensible person, addicted, like me, to espresso and the snooze button. The older one will be one those irritating freakish types that pops out of bed and sips herbal tea while balancing her checkbook and finishing off copying addresses onto her Christmas card list.

The younger child cannot find her socks in the morning. She had them, and now they are gone. She sits down on the floor and weeps. The socks are on her feet. I empathize. Older child is astounded: what planet did we come from?

I disclaim any responsibility for older child's morning habits, or where they lead her in life. I did not teach her this. I do not balance my checkbook at any time of day, and I drive my children to school in my bathrobe, as does any sane mother. I carefully measure the grounds for my morning coffee, and then double them. I am quite obviously mentally unavailable before ten a.m. for spirited discussions about the Civil War.

I believe that children should be evaluated early in their development to determine whether they will be dangerous Morning People or the more sensible Leave Me the Hell Alone People, and reassigned parents accordingly. I can imagine my older daughter living happily in a house full of her own kind, all up at six a.m. twittering and chittering at each other like a room full of TurboFurbies. And I can imagine this place being far, far away, on the other side of the mountains of coffee where Juan Valdez lives. While here, in a gentler time zone, her sister and I will hunch protectively over our double espressos, communicating only when absolutely necessary, and then only in grunts.

Yes, I love my older child dearly, and would miss her terribly.

After lunch.

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