Mornings

Creak.

The sound, although nearly inaudible, is somehow enough to rip my mind out of whatever strange dreamland it explores while asleep. My mother inserts her head through the door opening: “Time to wake up.” The creaking floor travels to the kitchen, while I can hear my sister’s elephant-walk booming across the dining room outside my bedroom.

I’m not sure how a ballet dancer - or just dancer in general, I guess, as she is attempting to learn other styles before college - can be so graceful on a stage or in a studio while wearing painful fitted boxes on her feet when she is the complete opposite anytime else. Seriously - she falls up the stairs. Not down. Up. And if she wakes up at five in the morning, the rest of the house is arbitrarily woken up as well. My parents try to make her walk quieter, but one can still hear her coming, wherever she is.

Anyway. I lay in bed, not particularly motivated to leave my cocoon, when a gallon of fur appears on my face, meowing her head off. I remove the fur, named Kiki, and slowly emerge, reaching an upright position at the exact same moment the fur jumps on my chest, meowing perpetually. They’re hungry, I think. I always feed them in the mornings; today is no different. I trundle downstairs with my makeshift fur scarf, followed by two of our three other cats. The fourth is most likely sleeping or being distracted by a crumpled piece of paper.

Ok, it sounds like I am destined to be a so-called “crazy cat lady” when I grow up. Probably true. Cats are wonderful creatures, and I can’t imagine life without them.

I continue my typical morning - the same as pretty much every school morning. Eat breakfast, brush teeth, wash face, put on clothes, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Listen to my mother’s constant reminders that we need to go soon or we will be late for school.

Late meaning less than twenty minutes early, apparently. I wonder if she knows school actually starts at 8:00, like it has through the entirety of middle and high school. Her constant nagging is extremely annoying. It is like she thinks I am incapable of caring for myself.

Do you have your ID?
Yes, mom. I haven’t forgotten it once in the past two-and-a-quarter years.

Do you have your homework?
Yes, mom. Going by the weight of my backpack currently located on my back, I have it all.

Do you have your phone?
Yes, mom. Would I go anywhere without it? I think not.

...I know she is just trying to help, but I wish she would see that I actually do have a functioning brain, despite my apparent inability to find objects right in front of my nose, and that I am capable of remembering things myself.

Don’t forget your lunch.
...even if I did, Mom, I’ve already planned ahead for that.