My Life With a Rooster

This column was first published here on September 22, 2010.

Edited versions were subsequently published,with permission of the author,

in print and online editions of community newspapers across Chicago.

While I certainly am a City Mom, no one will ever, ever call me Morning Mom.

To me, A.M. means Allergic to Morning.

And it means do not wake me up unless absolutely necessary. Do not talk to me, do not ask me questions. I can’t guarantee that you’ll get a meaningful answer, or any answer at all.

Trouble is, I married a major morning man.

While my husband likes to get his zzz’s as much as anyone, once his feet hit the floor in the morning, he’s on the move like a sports car going from zero to 60.

Once my feet hit the floor in the morning, I’m on the move, too—but more like an extra in “Zombie Island”---at least until I have a cup of coffee.

Years ago we were discussing our different outlooks on the morning. He said, “My morning motto is ‘Wake up early and attack at dawn’ and yours is ‘If you wake me up before dawn, I will attack you.’”

Accurate.

But I’m not complaining too much. For years, the upside of him being a morning person is that he would usually take the lead on getting our daughters rousted out of bed and ready for school. Meaning a little more sleep for the City Mom.

But really, must my husband sing at sunrise? Was he a rooster in a previous life?

That’s right. Singing.

Not humming a happy tune, but belting out snippets from Broadway musicals.

And not singing well. By his own admission, he sings like most men, like “Fred Flintstone in the shower,” as he says.

His favorite songs are from “Oklahoma!”---and I can almost tell what he’s doing by what he’s singing.

If he’s singing “Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day, I got a beautiful feelin’ everything’s goin’ my way,” he’s just started his day.

If he’s singing “There’s a bright golden haze on the meadow,” he’s looking out our kitchen window at our tiny patch of back yard grass. (And thoroughly annoying his sleepyhead daughters in the adjacent bedroom---who like their mother have their pillows pulled over their heads in response.)

If he’s singing “Poor Jud is dead, poor Jud Fry is dead,” he’s in the bathroom.

If he’s singing “Everything’s up to date in Kansas City, they’ve gone about as fer as they could go,” he’s making breakfast and packing lunches.

If he’s singing “Territory folks should stick together, Territory folks should all be pals, cowboys dance with farmers’ daughters, farmers dance with the ranchers' gals,” he’s feeding (and frightening and confusing) the dog and the cat.

If he’s singing “People will say we’re in love,” he’s standing next to the bed trying to wake me up.

At least that’s a nice, gentle song---better than mornings when he’s on a Busby Berkeley kick and trying to get me out of bed by singing, “I’m young and healthy, so let’s be booold; in a year or two or three, maybe we will be too old…”

Sheesh.

But I can’t complain, because one truly good thing about my husband belting out show tunes is that his love of song has rubbed off on our daughters----both of whom sing beautifully and have performed in concerts and in plays repeatedly over the years.

It’s not every day that a rooster inspires nightingales.

See you next week…

Joan Hadac is a Chicago news/feature reporter, editor and columnist.

Read her online at http://www.citymomchicago.blogspot.com/