I woke early this morning.

I am puppy sitting for my oldest’s new addition, so it was cold blue, silent early.

I used to be a night person. Those were the hours everyone was asleep, and I could be with myself, my thoughts. Early morning was never my jam, but I moved in with a morning person.

That first year, my choice was to either “get an early start on my day” or try to ignore Michael hovering over me, waiting to share his first thoughts. I got up.

When we had our first baby, I woke up every three hours, and the early mornings went on like that for twenty-one years or so.

Now that all the babies are grown and out, there is no need to wake up early, but old habits stick. I still don’t get up as early as Michael. He still hovers.

This morning it’s just the dogs and me. I made tea and stood out on the porch while puppy trotted through the damp grass, every sound and smell exciting and new.

Our street is quiet for a few hours after sunrise, save the garbage trucks on Tuesday. This morning I noticed a man walking with a bundle in his arms. He was bouncing in that familiar way parents do.

When he turned to head back down the other way, I saw his face: Mid-thirties, stubble, glasses, and a wrinkled T-shirt. I would say new father, but his bounce was expert. He’d done this before. Long enough to know that sometimes it’s better to give in, accept the early morning, and take a walk.

Early is special, I’ve learned. Sure it’s often a have-to, a blurry-eyed bounce that begs for a few more minutes of rest. But the longer a person travels early turns to want even need.

Need to greet the day, feel the bite and witness the gift of one more round.

The father took another lap. I finished my tea. He is surely tired. I am grateful.

My thoughts from the laundry room. Early Start.

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