Morning breakfast with daughter

Hobbling downstairs.  Restless night, early am.  It is still dark outside as I peer past the curtains on the landing.  Nope, no snow.  Sigh.

Shuffling into the kitchen.  Click on the coffee machine.  It is a new fangled 21st century piece of equipment that, when working, brews a hot cup of coffee in 25 seconds flat.  I insert one of the individual containers into its maw and close the lid.  Hot water gurgles through the machine, followed by a pleasing aroma that wafts through the air.  I am glad it is working today.

I stand in the kitchen, scratching myself.  I hear the dog rumbling down the stairs and into the hallway.  She is excited beyond measure to see me.  Her body curls into a comma as she scoots across the floor.  It's been 6 hours since we last met.  Though that is 42 hours to her.

I pour a scoop of dog food into her bowl.  She takes one kibble from the bowl and carries it to the center of the room, where she can crunch it at her leisure. 

I hear the girl upstairs moving around in her room.  I never have to wake her up, even at this ungodly early hour.  Actually, many times it is her head poking into my room, interrupting my dreams with an urgent: "Dad!  It's time to get up!" or "Aren't you going to make me lunch?".
 
Once she poked her head in three times, the last one furious and spitting nails.  "I'm going to school now, so 'phhhht!' and a 'phhhttt!'"  As if the 'phhhttt!' would show me, all snug and cozy with the wife in bed, while she goes out and battles through the cold and dark to wait for the bus.

I guess the 'phhhtttt!' was effective because I still feel guilty.


I hear the girl coming down the stairs.  She moves into the hallway and then into the kitchen light.  I am almost afraid to look at her - like a tense cat has entered the room, you just want to covertly glance at her out of the corner of your eye.  Her countenance on the good days is a blank gaze into the middle distance.  If it is a good day we can be silly and make up nonsense songs.  On most days though her face is a scowl.

Today is a scowl.

"Morning Dakota".

"Morning".

She says this with the glee of an inmate.  Her typical morning conversational tone is not sweet nor pleasant, but is shot out in the medium of salt and vinegar. Fortunately I am fond of salty, vinegary things.


"Breakfast is on the table, and also your lunch"

"Oh my God!  Cranberries!  I hate Cranberries in Oatmeal Dad!"

"Okay have an apple."

"And what's this?  Almonds again?  You always give me almonds!"

"Okay let's give you a slice of baloney."

"Aarrgh!  You don't understand!  We never even have baloney!"

After this exchange we are quiet for a while.  She eats her breakfast - an amount that would fail to satisfy a parakeet - with mechanical resignation.

I go to the front door and peer through the window.  I am wearing pajama bottoms.

"Dad!  What are you doing?"

"Checking for Mimi".

"Dad!  Get away from the door!  You're so embarrassing!"

I open the front door and step outside for a moment. 

"Dad!!"

I come back in and move to the kitchen.  I start my second cup of coffee, and quickly finish preparing my breakfast, and lunches for me and the boy.  The girl's lunch is ready on the table, by her stack of school books.

I catch the girl walking by.  She is prickly, but also hungry for affection.  She simultaneously wants and does not want to be hugged.

I hug her.  She is tight, softens for a moment, then tightens again.  It is like hugging a plank of wood.

A rapping on the door.  Her ride to school has arrived. 

"Okay, bye Dad."

"Bye sweetie.  Have a good day."

She's out the front door.  The room is now big and quiet, with that special kind of silence that breaks out  after a storm has passed.  I sit down with my coffee and watch the morning sunlight spill into the back yard.

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