Her tiny voice comes from the side of my bed. Her wispy hair outlined by a faint morning glow. I hear her speaking before my mind wakes up. On and on she goes, talking as if I’m fully awake, when in reality in the dark under the covers all I have is a happy sensation that I’m still sleeping and hearing some sweet sound.
My daughter’s voice.
Doesn’t matter what she’s asking me, I just like the way she sounds. She’s no longer “free,” as she was when she was one less than four, but her tone still carries the whimsy of her tiny body. Hopes for lollipops, glue sticks and bike rides at the top of her brain.
Most mornings she wakes me up. Asking for scotch tape, or for me to look at her eye which hurts, or can she please have a cookie before breakfast. It’s what I call the Please Mommy Parade. AKA my alarm clock. You know — all the things in vital need of an answer at 6 A.M.
“Please Mommy, tell Daddy that he said he’s going to play chase with me!”
“Please Mommy, can I wear my new bathing suit to swim lessons next week?”
“Please Mommy, I broke that thing you had on the top of the other thing.”
Morning after morning my own mind stretches through the swirl of waking up and making sense out of what she’s saying. But usually she’s gone, hopped off to another adventure before I even sit up. And I’m left to meld my dream-state consciousness with whatever noises I hear following her down the hall. It’s actually quite a nice way to wake up. If confusing.
And loads better than how she likes to approach my husband when he’s catching a weekend nap on the sofa.
Bundled head to toe in a heap of blankets, her head a mound underneath, she’ll slip around the corner and then launch herself next to him screaming, “Surprise!”