Romance of An Early Morning

Lara woke up at 6 am, as usual, cooing in her crib peacefully, waiting for me to grab her and hold her. She is the thing closest to peace and perfection in my 31 years of existence. I see no trace of my melancholy in her always smiling face (Smiley face people call her, as she ahguus to them from the safe distance of her BabyBjorn, checking with one hand that her mommy is there). My day will follow the perfect routine of feeding and bathing Lara, and playing our favorite games - before nap times, or sometimes just for the heck of it, we will read our favorite book, "Say Hello on the Farm". Who is that nibbling-half asleep, say hello to the drowsy sheep? Here is the sty, not very big. Say hello to the little pink pig! When we go out, we will mockingly whisper the same lines, likening passers-by to our characters. Early in the morning, I will pack Lara, strap her in her infant car seat, and head for our routine Starbucks treat. I know the baristas and they know me as the exhausted upbeat mom of a kicking 6-months old. The wife of one of the baristas is pregnant. Another takes sneak breaks on the patio to call her mom in a far-away country, talking to her in an exotic language. In a way, their life within the confines of this small upscale corner cafe is as predetermined and rigid as mine, so they all love to talk to people who have no hurry to leave, such as me and the baby. Yes, here comes the baby, they say as we enter. Or, they start shouting in a spontaneous cheerful voice "Laraaa, Laraa" the moment they spot her, to which baby responds with her usual bravado: "yes I am kicking because this is my favorite place to be in the morning", or "yes I love all the attention" . Mommy is the backdrop in an otherwise perfect day, usually unnoticed, her long hair running in all directions. I let my hair express my creativity. Sitting on the Starbucks porch can be lonely early in the morning, when the sun has not risen yet through the misty clouds, driveways host suburban SUVs and humvees, and only the occasional jogger chances the quiet runways. I slowly sip my tall-decaf-no-whip mocha, sometimes skimming the Washington Post, reacting to the news as a formerly critical now complacent political reader. And on a day like this one, when baby is napping, and the birds chirping, I am thinking of Hemingway and his Havana.