Mornings - They Aren't For Everyone

It’s no secret that I’m not a gracious morning person.  There are exceptions – when I’m with my grandchildren or when I’m on vacation and can awake naturally without need of an alarm clock – but most days I need my quiet alone time before I’m good company.  My boss learned this years ago and in the past was known to toss a shoe into my office before he entered.  If it came back at him, he’d wait.

My husband knows this of course, but he has the most unusual approach to it.  He wakes up each morning like a dog, ready to go and excited about whatever the day will bring.  He has this notion that one morning things will be different, that I will wake up and be just like him.  Ain’t happening.

My non-morningness is one reason I don’t like to duck hunt.   Getting up at 4 a.m. to go sit outside in the cold or freezing rain isn’t my thing.  It is definitely my husband’s thing.  He’ll go duck hunting at the drop of a hat, he and #1 Duck Dog Duke.  I’ve learned how to get him packed up quickly so that on those mornings when he leaves our house at 3:30 a.m. I don’t have to get up and help him find things.  That’s the theory anyway.

Last Friday night we were packing for the hunt.  His plan was to leave between 3 and 3:30, and I sure didn’t want to have to get up and hunt for clothes/guns/ammo on a Saturday, my only day to sleep in.  I filled a small canvas bag with thick hunting socks, thermal underwear, cammo pants and shirt, a sweatshirt, and a clean pair of underwear.  He retrieved his heavy coat from the closet, his shotgun and .22 from the gun safe, and loaded them into the truck along with Sir Duke’s life vest.  Ammo?  At the Ranch, check.  Clothes laid out for him to jump into when the alarm went off in the morning?  Grubby jeans and hunting boots on the dresser, check.  I asked him a couple of times if there was any special clothing he wanted me to pack for him.  Nope, everything he wanted was ready.  He assured me he wouldn’t need to wake me the next morning.  Ha.

At 3:00 a.m. the alarm went off.  I woke briefly to wish him a safe trip then turned over under the warm covers.  After a few minutes it became clear to me that he was still here, in the closet messing around amongst his shirts.  He came out into the bedroom and in the light of the closet door held up his best, flannel shirt.  “Should I wear this?”  “No!” I said, annoyed at this last minute clothing issue.  I thought he had learned there are hunting clothes and there are other clothes so I don’t have the Great Laundry Challenge when he gets home.  I’d made sure to put out his hunting jeans the night before, but made the mistake of assuming he’d just grab a shirt out of the laundry hamper and go.  But No, he decides to stroll through the nicely laundered shirts hanging in his closet for a trip that will involve dirt, grime, mud, and blood.  Seriously?

Grouchily, I threw back the covers and put my feet on the floor, grumbling about having to get up and help him, how inconsiderate he was and a few other things I’m not proud of saying.  Then he decided he wanted a different sweatshirt than the one I packed.  At that, I launched into my spiel about how I hated last minute changes when we had decided on everything the night before.  Poor Paul  - I helped him alright, but he paid a 3 a.m. nagging price for it. 

At last he seemed to have everything he wanted and I headed back to bead, wishing him a safe trip and asking him to please turn off all the lights so I could go back to sleep.  I heard the clomp, clomp, clomp as he went downstairs, heard the door to the garage open and close several times as he and Duke did whatever it is they do to get ready to leave the house.  Snug under the covers I listened until I heard it.  Silence.  Beautiful, peaceful, undisturbed quiet.  Time to get back to dreamland.  Except that darn stairwell light was putting off just enough light into the bedroom doorway I couldn’t sleep. 

One more time out from under the warm covers, flip the light off, and back into warmth.  I said a prayer for safe travel, then thanked the Lord that I have a good husband, that I ‘m able to be his helpmate, that he puts up with my grumbling, that we have a lovely home and he is a good provider, and that the Lord forgives our bad attitudes and harsh words when we humbly ask.  Besides, I knew that after a couple of days of beautiful, peaceful, undisturbed quiet I’d be ready for the sound of that truck pulling into the driveway, ready to hear about the hunt, ready for a break from the quiet – something that comes naturally to the Hunter and Sir Duke.