He jumps out of bed carefully so as not to disturb his brother sleeping below him. I make us tea and gather our jars for milk. He pulls out our boots, and stands at the door with car keys in hand. As we take our short drive, we watch the world waking up as we go by. Sometimes we listen to the news on NPR, but mostly, it's silent. We both like it that way this time of day.
At the farm, we get right to the business for which we have come. Milk. Getting things ready, greeting whomever - critter and human - we see in a world that has already been awake for hours. And we head out to the pasture to find our girl (well, not really 'ours' of course). Calvin's my gate-boy, always being sure that the cow and I are the only ones coming out (we have a laughable little fear of this, sweet Calvin and I, since a rather epic, but also laughable, adventure during our stay last fall).
While I'm milking, we talk about all manner of things not limited to the sweet bovine girl in front of us. One of us always remarks on the beauty of the early morning light coming into the barn and reflecting off the hay. We laugh at the chickens. He talks to the yearling. We talk about what I plan to make with the milk this week. We remark upon the darker, sadder, "grosser" and real parts of life with farm animals. We talk about how much we can't wait for all of it.
Other times, we move about in total silence. Sometimes, in that quiet space of the barn, he tells me things I didn't know about himself. And sometimes, I tell him things he didn't know about me.
Once a week (but more often than that), I love this date with my son.
Once a week (but more often than that), I am grateful to friends who share their animals (and the 'easy' parts of farming) with us.
Once a week (but more often than that), I dream about our own future and remind myself that the day will come.