Morning Has Broken

         The baby was crying, the phone in her pocket trembling and ringing with that too loud ring tone she'd chosen, and the toast was burnt, stuck in the old toaster . . . again. 

     Well, first things first--she unplugged the toaster before the smoke alarm could go off, silenced her phone, and walked, no, ran down the hall to the baby's room. It was too early for an infant to be up and crying but apparently little Rosie had not yet perfected or enjoyed 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep

    Which of course affected her mother--and now her father because Maria slapped the bedroom door--hard--as she passed; it was her way of letting Norman that it was a new day, time to rise and shine, which she shouted just as her hand hit the door. 

    She knew he hated those words--I'm not shining for anyone--but, as she had pointed out more than once, it worked--better than any alarm clock. . . a bit of irritation gets you right up.  

    Rosie was standing in the crib, one hand holding the railing, the other reaching out in anticipation of her mother's sudden appearance, their early morning meeting choreographed down to the last detail: baby cries, smells toast burning, mother slaps the bedroom door, instinctive rumble from Dad, Mother appears, scoops up baby, both bodies warming the other, and they're off . . . morning has broken and a new day begun as Rosie snuggles her head into her mother's chest so they can both slow down and breathe together.