I’m five years old in this memory. It’s a weekday morning. I never seem to notice the morning’s arrival until my mother comes to wake me up.
“Sweetie,” she calls out in a loud voice that yanks me out of sleep. “Time to wake up!”
In our tiny living room, my little brother is already up, toddling around the small low table carrying the bowls of yogurt and spoons for both of us, being a big boy. Meanwhile, I drag myself across the room to change into my daywear with my eyes still half-closed.
“Be quick,” says my mother from the kitchen. “We’ll be leaving soon!”
There is usually less than half an hour before I leave home for kindergarten. I sit at the low table next to my brother and start eating fruits and yogurt. The TV is on in the background to keep track of time.
At some point, my mother calls me to the kitchen so that she can tie my hair for the day.
“One, two, or half-up?” she asks me in front of the microwave holding a comb and hair ties. One means a ponytail, two means pigtails, and half-up means the most basic half-up hair.
Once that’s done and I finish my breakfast, it’s time for us to leave home.
“Come quick!” says my mother again as I collect my yellow bag and yellow hat and walk to the door in a sluggish movement. “Say bye to your brother!”
My brother usually stays at home for the next 15 minutes or so while my mother takes me to kindergarten. It’s fine because my father is technically at home albeit deep in sleep.
“Bye!” I wave at my brother. “See you later!”
And off we go. Down the staircase into the fresh morning air. A new day is beginning.