I’m awake before anyone else, which is unusual. Rob and I typically wake up when the smurf down the hall runs in and dive-bombs our bed, demanding things like breakfast or our phones. But today, silence at 7:30am. The first thing I have to do is take my medicine, so I use the bed rail to roll myself over and grab for the little container. My hands shake slightly, but I’m able to open it and wrestle out a pill. Then I drop the whole thing. Pills everywhere. I feel bad for the noise, but that’s about it. I’m used to dropping things.

I have a system down for getting myself out of bed. It doesn’t always work, but today is a good day. First, I use my arms to push my legs out of bed. Then I grip the bed rail with one hand while pushing the rest of my body up with my other elbow. It’s slow going, but I’m sitting, and that’s the hardest part. From there, I push off once more on the bed rail and come to a standing position so that I can angle myself into my wheelchair.

Rolling over in bed makes me think of Scarlett as a baby, doing her tummy time and learning to flip her body around. She was so frustrated by her initial inability to do it, and she would work really hard, grunting and turning red. It’s a shock to realize that I don’t have the rolling ability of a three-month-old. But I console myself with the knowledge that my hair is SO much better than a baby’s. I mean, no contest.

As I wheel out of my bedroom, Scarlett appears. “Mommy, I’m hungry.” she announces. “I want toast with a great deal of butter.” This is a line from a series of books about a pig named Mercy Watson. Mercy always has toast with a great deal of butter. We head to the kitchen.

The bread is on the top shelf of the refrigerator, which means I have to balance myself and stand, then reach for it with a shaky arm. The toaster is easy, so the next challenge is spreading the butter. Scarlett could do all of this, but she’s asked me to, and, as her mom, I think it’s a fair request. I’m just glad she didn’t ask me to make eggs. I could also wake up Rob and ask him to help, but I want to let him sleep. I can handle it. It’s butter on toast, after all. But it takes two hands to cut the butter and I have to switch back and forth between them to spread it.

Once she has her Breakfast of Champion Fictional Pigs in front of her, I make tea and sit next to her reading a magazine. Then she wants me to read to her, so I maneuver onto the couch and thump down the way I imagine a fat—but also adorable—walrus would do it. If he was drunk. Reading tires me a little, which is surprising. Mornings are just hard, none of my muscles willing to wake up quickly and jump into the day. Eventually, they get there, and things become easier as the hours go by.

Rob gets up and picks all my pills off the floor. He asks me if I want to take a shower, and my first reaction is to say no, because I showered the day before, and let’s not get ridiculous here. But then I decide that maybe I don’t have to be gross ALL OF THE TIME. Most of the time will be just fine.

Part of me wonders why I’m sharing all of this. I suppose it just seemed slightly more interesting than: I woke up, I made breakfast, I read to my daughter, I took a shower.

Share this post on your social platform