Saturday, July 25, 2009

Saturday mornings

Most weekend mornings, when I was growing up on Levac Drive, I would wake up in my pink unicorn room, in my white iron bed frame with the spring-loaded mattress (the old kind of springs!). It was a great jumping bed. But I digress, (already!). I would wake up, probably wearing my Pocahontas nightie, and hear a beat coming from downstairs.
I would try and pick out what song it was based on the bmmp bmmp bmmps. I'd roll out of bed, inevitably have to pee, and then walk downstairs with my bedhead to hear, in most cases, the Beatles or some Saturday morning Motown. On Saturdays, Dad was in charge of the soundtrack (no more Magic 100 adult listening! Yay!) He would already be in the kitchen making French Toast for Patrick and himself, wearing is sweat pants and band T-Shirts. I would indulge in one of my favourite "weekend cereals", ones so dubbed because they were like 60% glucose, so my parents wisely set them aside for the weekend, when the resultant sugar-infused hyperactivity could be sent outside afterwards. I would make a bowl of Lucky Charms, pick out the marshmallows and then say I was full. Until 10 minutes later when I would want a granola bar or something.
Mom would come down in her housecoat after having her shower, eat her English muffin with honey, and a pot of tea would be put on. Even at 7 or 8 years old, tea was a staple in my diet on weekend mornings, and every day after school or about 4 p.m. My mug was the funny face one.
Then, smelling the French Toast frying, Patrick would not just arrive downstairs, he would explode down the hallway, also with major bed head, and break into a totally goofy air guitar solo to go along with whatever song was on the record player.
We would all dance goofy, Dad and Patrick would pretend wrestle, and somewhere in the big heap of excitement our cat Mindy would be resting. (Holly didn't arrive on the scene until I was 9)
I love the memories I have of waking up weekend mornings. Those were moments so full of promise. If the sun was up, the day's possibilities were endless: there was no school, Dad wasn't going to work, and we enjoyed a late bedtime after watching a movie. (I think we rented the 3 Ninjas movies and Honey, I Shrunk the Kids until they wore out).
Now, all grown up with a house and family of my own started, mornings don't feel the same if I'm standing over the stove top making pancakes, and there is no soundtrack. The radio gets turned on to the soul channel, and "Dancing in the Streets" comes on. I can't help but dance for Abby, singing into my spatula, in my housecoat, fluffy slippers and bed head.

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