The alarm goes off. Sometimes it wakes me up, sometimes it doesn’t. Husband rolls out of bed turns it off and lumbers into the bathroom. The door shuts, the light seeps out from under, and the shower starts up. If I wake up to the alarm I am sometimes able to fall back to sleep while Husband sleep showers. The bathroom door opens and then closes half way, shining light on his empty side of the bed. I roll over or cover my head. He braves the landmine of dogs, dog beds, and stray toys on his way to the closet.
The closet door opens and there is an unfamiliar rattling. My sleep saturated mind tries to determine the source of the sound. Were the boys playing in our closet again and left their jingle bell necklaces in one of Husband’s shoes? Do belts make that noise if they get brushed by a shirt or a fumbling hand? Ah, maybe it is the sound of the skeletons in our closet trying to get out. Or the skeletons of the neighbors we stuffed in there. You know the neighbors; the ones who lets their dogs poo all over our forest where the boys play even after I asked them nicely not to, the one who drives his red jeep way too fast down our dead end street, the crazy neighbor guy who…I drift back to sleep.
“Mama?! It wake up time yet?” And so my day begins in earnest this time. We are well into breakfast when I remember the rattling and I smile a knowing smile. Beer bottles, exactly fifty, resting in our closet. Husband is trying his hand at home brewing and he and the boys bottled the brew last night, transferring it from the carboy to the bottles.
So instead of a huge vat of beer fermenting in my closet, there are fifty beer bottles carbonating in there instead. For the next two weeks. Or more. At least it is on his side.
No actual neighbors were harmed in the making of this post.