I am up early this morning—to think, to write. An hour later, here she is. She walks out of the bedroom and frumps down hard on the chair across from me, a frustrated energy, looking down at—then tossing aside—her phone.
“Good morning, lovely.”
“Morning,” she says without looking up.
“Hey, my girl… hello... I am over here.”
She looks up, slumping, frowning.
“What’s the matter?” I say.
“Nothing. I don’t know... nothing...”
She picks up her phone again, concentrates.
“Look over here, baby, look… I have a little present for you…”
“Look, look, look…” I say, laughing.
She looks at me and I blow her a sweet little kiss. A half-smile breaks but she looks down at her phone again, and the furrowed frown returns. My voice changes now. I am in a nice mood this morning and I will not abide her bringing my energy down. “Sandy…” I say, soft and low and firm, like a father addressing a petulant child. “Look at me.” She looks. I raise a reprimanding eyebrow and gaze at her steadily for a few seconds. “Listen to me,” I say, a caressing command, “Don’t be cranky around me, lovely girl. If something is bothering you, then tell me. I am here for you. But if you just woke up in a bad mood for no reason, I won’t allow it. Change it.” And then, the instruction complete, I smile bright and wink at her.
She continues to pout but secretly smiles. I laugh and point to my cheek, “Come here, my sweet, and give me my sugar.” “No.” But she gets up and comes toward me.
“Come say good morning to me, my crazy girl.” I point again to my cheek. “Where’s my sugar?”
And she sits down laughing beside me and the beautiful day properly begins.