I don’t do routine.
Luckily, my lovely husband does.
He has imposed a routine on our mornings that ensures everyone is up, clean, caffeinated-where-appropriate, clothed, fed and out the door on a timeline that does not require panic, screaming, name-calling and/or recriminations. It’s like voodoo.
This morning I woke up at the appointed time, told Lovely Husband about my dream (Céline Dion? Really?) and then—in flagrant disregard of The Routine, he suggested maybe I’d make the coffee this morning. (That should have been a clue.) It was not an unreasonable request, so I began to lever myself out of my nice warm bed.
At which point…I woke up. Told Lovely Husband about the dream I’d just had. He handed me my coffee, as usual.
My conscious brain loves our morning routine and the benefits it brings.
I strongly suspect my subconscious of planning a prison break.