It’s 7am

Picture this:

It’s 7am.

You have a short and vivid night behind your back, populated by strange characters, all chasing you down at the same time  and willing to do something to you. It’s not important what their real intention was. What is important is that you open your eyes and listen to the silence of the room for a few heart beats until you realize it was ‘but a bad dream’. You fall asleep again.

Closed eyelashes, deformed pillow, your blanket is falling next to your bed and it feels like either climbing the Everest or launching yourself in a bungee jump to recover it. You leave it slide away. You turn on the other side, frown your eyes and tell yourself that the soft-cozy-warm-fluffy-enveloping cover is only the fruit of your agitated imagination and you drift away in your mystery night world.

It’s 7am and you refuse to open your eyes.

Your face constricts with disapproval. You bite your lips, you lift your arms and then you drop them on the sides. You mumble and swear between your teeth. Morning light is invading your bedroom even though you had almost stuck the blinds to the window frame just to prevent exactly this abusing instance.

You stamp your wrap with indignation and fury, and pout at the perspective of extracting yourself from your welcoming nest. You open your mouth and choke, nose buried deep into the pillow.

And then you suddenly sit up and breathe: a deep breath of the new day arising. You look at the ceiling and, a million of a second before desperation menaces to strike, you fall again. Stretching flat you cover your forehead with your hands mildly pulling on a lock of hair.

A gentle hand comes to rest on your stomach. A soft kiss lands just behind your ear. A loving hug reminds you that you are blessed to open your eyes on a bright new day. A manly voice hums an inviting: ‘good morning’.

It’s 7am. On a Sunday morning.

The giggles downstairs remind you that the Sun is already up. The tiny happy dwarf-like creatures are awake and calling you from far away.

You are a mom, even at 7am on a Sunday morning.

You step down the stairs slowly, cautiously. You make a sign to The man following you to keep quiet. You take a peak through the door opening of the whisper room.

„Boo!” laughter, cheers and a whirlpool of incredible stories overflow the space. A dog is barking  impatiently  somewhere in the background.

It’s 7am on a Sunday -Monday morning…