There were muffins in the morning yesterday. There are often muffins in the morning around here, if you want to know the truth. Fast to mix up, only 20 minutes in the baking, they fill the house with that marvelous rich scent of vanilla and chocolate and flour and cinnamon, and are oh so delicious for breakfast when they are still warm from the oven. Muffins are a frequent occurrence around here.
Especially in the morning.
I have taken to getting up early in the mornings. I have blogged before about living with unpredictable chronic pain and how my day effectively ends at 2 p.m. whether or not I am ready for it to be over (and whether or not there are still things left to accomplish in the day). Early in the morning, the house is still and quiet. The sun has not yet started peeking through the windows. The birds are still quietly nestled in their nests and the neighbours… well, some of the neighbours are up. I can see their lights through their windows. Most, though, lie sleeping in houses filled with darkness and warmth.
Best of all, early in the morning, once I have run through a quick stretch and a not-so-quick bit of physiotherapy, I feel fine.
Oh, not fine fine, for this pebble I carry with me is still there as it always, always is. But I have discovered that I can add several useful hours to my day without making my end-of-day end any sooner. I can get up at 7 and function well until 2 when my body tires and my brain gets fuzzy and my pain levels climb to the point of exhausted frustration. Or, I can get up at 5 and function well until that very same 2 o’clock finish line.
So I have taken to getting up early in the mornings. I check my email. I read the news headlines. I feed the birds and the fish. I get an hour or two of work accomplished before I need to wake the kids. On weekends, I knit, or sew, or read for a bit while savouring the peace that has settled over the house like a loving blanket.
And I bake muffins.
Muffins I hardly ever get to eat, I should mention, since I have an almost teenaged boy in the house. Who loves muffins. And thinks nothing of eating two of them in a row, plus putting one in his lunch box and having another as an after school snack and maybe, if I let him, one for dessert after dinner, too.
And then, late at night, well over an hour after he’s been tucked in and chatted with and kissed and hugged and hugged some more, his lanky frame appears around the corner with his hair tousled from his pillow and his skin prickling with the sudden change from warm bed to cool air.
“Mom?” he says, as if neither of us know what’s coming next. “I’m hungry. Can I have a muffin?”