My Sunday Morning

A typical Sunday morning. I wake early (like 7), lament it's not earlier, try to get to the coffeemaker and computer before anyone else wakes up. Oldest daughter hears. Sits by the screen. Opens Guinness Book of World Records. "Did you know an ostrich can run 45 miles per hour?" I ignore and listen. Nod. Try to come up with another word for sharpen. She keeps reading. Lights are too bright. I dig out a dictionary of the four on the counter. A really large, 1/2 foot thick, bad boy usually has it. I go for the pocket-size with the tabs. It doesn't. "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs made that much money?" She wants breakfast. I say French toast. I take a notebook paper on clipboard to the kitchen, plus the Sunday NYT, and a dictionary and pull out the bacon. Start cooking and reading and writing. Try not to burn anything. Get caught up in a story about a millionaire poker player (and I'm a writer? He's 21, no 22. It's hopeless.) Scribble a line I want to add to my story. Drain the bacon. Crack eggs, whisk with milk and dip white bread, first gets too soggy, splatter the pic of the poker player with cinnamon slosh. Run for thesaurus. Try (again) not to burn while I read, look up a word. Say hello to the second child. Finish my cup. Refill it. Find the right word.