Sunday morning. The house is quiet and warm, the flannel bedding is a cold-weather treat.
Ed wakes up slowly, rolls over, drifts off again, flings his arm out to land on my hip.
Wake, drift, repeat.
He mumbles. I say good morning, ask him something – I can’t remember what, now.
“I’m groggy,” he answers. “I slept weird.”
He starts to drift off again, sleepy yet restless. I try to think of a distraction, something to help him get past the waking-up part.
“If we had a disco ball in our bedroom, and it flashed little squares of light all over, and sparkly music played… then you’d wake up weird.”
Without opening his eyes, he mutters, “There’s something wrong with you.”
And then we howled with laughter. That’s the way to wake up on a Sunday.