White Flag of the Dead

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“Ugh.” “How’s that?” “Ugh.”

“Come on caveman, your son is calling you.” My wife of six years poked me in the ribs and pushed my feet off the bed. In the background, soft music played through the monitor, indicating that Jake, our son, was awake and had activated the toy. “I’m too tired to play daddy today. Get someone else.” I groaned, rolling over and burying my head in my pillows. “Move it or we’ll never play at making another one,” she threatened. “Empty threat. I’m too good for any woman to give up cold turkey.” Ellie grabbed my pillows. “Fine. How about it’s your turn since I got up at 2?” I rolled out of bed and lay on the floor. “I’m nothing if not fair.”

The words “Have fun.” floated over the bed and down to my ears as I started my morning routine of pushups and sit-ups. I barely felt them anymore, since I had been doing them since I was a kid. But habits are habitual, and it woke me up in the mornings.

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