Much like the movie, I seem to be reliving every morning over and over again. I wake to my daughter's crying around 5:30am. My feet seem to find their way to the floor feeling for the burbur carpet beneath them. Her room is dark except for a cheap plastic night light which at this hour seems to burn a bit too bright. I muster a smile through sleep-deprived blurred vision, and scoop her into my arms. She is warm and snuggly and I find myself unable to be bitter about last night's slumber or lack thereof. The next early riser is my son. His voice rises with a pitch that could only be a child's. By this time, I have had at least one cup of coffee and I clumsily climb the stairs ready to greet him. Apparently, he has been speaking to the "pro-diapers union" and once again has wet his bed. If, I didn't know better, I'd think I was in an elephant house. I launch into my usual routine of stripping off piss saturated pajama pants and the sheets that shared in the smell.
We confer about future union talks, and how we can better use the potty next time.
He is already making plans for his morning, and I smile thinking of how alike we both are. Unlike the movie, I wouldn't change my mornings for the world.