I used to like mornings. Especially weekend mornings, with the post-marriage rituals of extreme sloth and mid-morning coffee. Even weekday mornings weren't that bad. Read a few lines from a novel, say a prayer and roll into work nice and early, grabbing a piece of fruit and a friendly slice of toast on the way.
But now. I lay in bed, stomach sending irate memos, esophagus not long enough for the train of googe that threatens to burst and I hope. I hope for many things in the morning's half-light-- for the day to go well, for the students to behave, for a respite from the nausea. And I wait. Sometimes the waiting pays off. I'll hit snooze. I'll read more than a few lines of novel. I'll listen to the horrible techno-dance radio station Dutch programmed in my alarm clock. Sometimes my stomach decides things are simply ok for now, and I'll roll out of bed and the morning will be like any other. Other times, my desire not to get fired from my job overrides and I'll get out of bed early. Usually too fast. And then I'll find myself running quickly other places. Stomach will pick up the Red Phone and arm the warheads. Dispatches will be quickly passed on to other systems and while the Kremlin launches countermeasures, the tock will click. When I return, bleary-eyed, sinus-stopped and with a slightly recognizable but horribly wrong flavor in the back of my throat, the clock will tell me its time to be at work.
I envy the caffeine-crowd. They have something to look forward to. As soon as the brown stuff is hot, their antidote can go careening into their systems. Life can start to feel normal. I used to be able to eat crackers in the morning, but for the last two months, crackers have only been ammunition for Them. It was as if They were giving me vomit flavor choices. I have given up crackers. We ate the last box last night with cheese.