“It’s 8:15 on a Sunday morning. I’m still in bed feeling groggy. Most days, I’m downstairs at my little wooden desk, drinking coffee, reflecting, writing, grounding myself for the day by 6 a.m. But ever since the craziness of the holidays, my inner clock and energy levels have been a little wacky.

Ding! goes my phone sitting on the nightstand, alerting me of a new text.

Oscar, curled up at my feet licking the bedspread like it’s ham, looks up. His tail is wagging as if he knows the text is from his cuddle buddy—the other human who sometimes sleeps in this bed when not working overnight shifts in the ER. That would be Mike, my husband for nearly a quarter of a century.

It’s no secret Mike is Oscar’s favorite. Although I’m the one who regularly feeds Oscar, walks Oscar, bathes Oscar, brings Oscar in for haircuts, booster shots, parasite checks, and pretty much single-handedly keeps Oscar alive, Mike is the one who sneaks Oscar sausage treats.

Our brief text exchange goes like this:

Him:

Good morning!
Any eggs?
Home at 10a.

Me:

Good morning!
Yep.
Sausages too!

That’s about as chatty as we get post nightshift and pre-coffee.

Usually, he simply grabs a chocolate-covered custard-filled doughnut on his way out of the hospital or a banana from our kitchen counter on his way up to bed. But if it’s a Sunday, he likes to have eggs. And sometimes I’m nice enough to make them for him.

I start to doubt whether or not we do actually have eggs. There’s been a lot of cookie baking going on thanks to our college freshman home for three weeks on winter break. She goes back later today. It was so monumentally hard for me to see her go in the fall. But this time, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. She loves her new freedom and is eager to return. So I want that for her too.

I rub Oscar’s belly for a couple of minutes. Then I get my butt out of bed wearing leggings and a T-shirt. I don’t think I’ve worn a real pair of pajamas since the 1990s. I pull on my Mr. Rogers-like cardigan that’s lying on the floor, slide into slippers, and shuffle downstairs to the kitchen.

Trying not to acknowledge the sink full of dishes, I open the fridge and am happy to see a carton of eggs way in the back on the lower shelf. But then I’m not so happy when I realize today’s date is a week after the “use-by” date.

Argh. The last thing I want to do right now is climb into a cold car just for eggs.

If I were making eggs for myself, this would not be an issue. I’m pretty sure I was raised on expired eggs. But my husband is more particular when it comes to expiration dates. Then again, he wouldn’t have to know, I think to myself.

An internal battle of conscience rages within me for a couple of minutes until I make my decision.

I pull my long winter coat over my “pajamas” and my grey knit hat over my bedhead and drive to the corner gas station.

***

Before buying the eggs, I stop at the rack of newspapers near the register counter. These days, I mostly read the news online. But I long for those Sunday mornings when I’d pour steaming French roasted coffee into a thick mug and spread the paper out on the kitchen table, handing off the sports section to Mike and then devouring the rest, starting with the comics.

After scanning the local newspaper headlines on the rack, “Iran Apologizes for Shooting Down Ukranian Jetliner” and “Trump and Pelosi squaring off ahead of impeachment,”  I decide I don’t want to spread it out on my kitchen table.

“Any fuel or a car wash with that?” asks Annie, the lovely cashier with fading purple highlights and white nail polish.

“No, just the eggs.”

“Are you a rewards member?”

“Nope,” I say.

“Do you want to sign-up for free?”

“I’ll pass, but thanks anyway.”

“Ok. Do you want a receipt with that?”

“Nah.”

“Ok, we’ll see you next time then,” she concludes.

“Thanks, Annie. Have a good day,” I say.

I’ve been going to this same place at least once a week for the past fifteen years. And as long as I can remember, I get asked the same four questions, followed by that “see you next time” phrase every. single. time. But instead of being annoyed, I leave with a smile on my face. They’re all so friendly and do their jobs well. And I appreciate that.

On the short drive home, I turn the radio dial to Cities 97.1. That classic  “If I had a Million Dollars” by Barenaked Ladies is playing. Such a great song. I start bobbing my head and singing along the best I can.

If I had a million dollars
(I’d build a tree-fort in our yard)
If I had a million dollars
(You could help it wouldn’t be that hard)

I decide it’s my new favorite song of the week.

By the time Mike walks in the door, the eggs and sausages are sizzling on the stovetop. With a winter coat over his scrubs and his furry winter hat with ear flaps over his overgrown buzz cut, he pulls me in for an appreciative and sleepy hug.

After scooping himself a plateful, he parks himself on a stool at the kitchen island, still wearing his hat with earflaps. I call it his “special hat.” Anyone else would think he looks kind of dorky in it, but I think it makes him look like a handsome lumberjack. 

After the lumberjack finishes his breakfast and Oscar finishes the sausage treats “accidentally” dropped on the floor,” the two cuddle buddies head upstairs to bed.

By this time, Teen 1, Teen 2, and Teen 3 are up and fixing themselves breakfast. They know the drill. Dad has to sleep, but the rest of us get up and go to church.

Eighth-grader pulls out a pot and makes herself oatmeal, which she’ll top with blueberries, bananas, and a dash of cinnamon. Super chill and confident, she’s already taller than me, a better writer than me, and most likely making plans to someday move faaaaaaaaaaaar away from me. I sure hope not.

Eleventh-grader pours himself a bowl of Reese’s Puffs and then eats it at the table while watching some football pregame thing on his phone. Some perceive him as quiet and reserved, but I know and treasure him as deeply clever and hysterically funny. Plus he gives the best hugs in the whole wide world.

College-girl toasts a bagel and spreads it with cream cheese, then eats it stretched out on the couch with her laptop. Thoroughly happy that her high school years are behind her and this new, exciting season of her life is ahead of her, she’s coming into her own with fierce determination and gratitude.

When we arrive at church, we find a spot on the left side, halfway up the aisle.  As the priest begins his sermon,  I have a hard time focusing. I drift into my own bubble of thoughts, a bazillion tasks and worries on my mind. Not to mention, I can’t get my new favorite song of the week out of my head.

And if I had a million dollars (if I had a million dollars)
Well I’d buy you some art (a Picasso or a Garfunkel)
If I had a million dollars (if I had a million dollars)
Well I’d buy you a monkey (haven’t you always wanted a monkey?!)

I’m jolted back to reality, though, when everybody around me suddenly starts laughing.

At first, I’m terrified that maybe I had been singing the song out loud and they were laughing at me! But then I quickly realize they’re laughing at something the priest said. He must’ve told one of his goofy jokes or funny stories. It must’ve been a good one. Even my kids are laughing!

I love a goofy joke or a funny story, and I’m bummed I missed it. But what I love more is seeing my three teens together smiling and laughing (and bonus if it’s happening while at church!!). My heart soars at the sight.

I don’t need a million dollars. I just want more of all of this please.

I’m Julie Jo Severson, mom to three teens and freelance journalist, author, and editor. This blog, Carvings on a Desk, is where I reconnect with my own voice swirling around in the middle. Subscribe and receive the occasional stories in your inbox.

NEW BOOK COMING OUT SPRING 2020!

Hey! Those of you from the Twin Cities or planning a visit to the Twin Cities, click here if you’re interested in learning about my new quirky book, Secret Twin Cities, coming out Spring 2020. Putting my journalism background, natural curiosity, and little iPhone to good use, I had the time of my life exploring and learning the backstories of gems and legacies throughout my metropolitan home.