HONG KONG - The gray light peeking through from behind the block-out curtains is all I need to tell me the time, but I check the clock anyway.
At this time on most days, thoughts of crammed buses and pressing deadlines are already crowding my consciousness as I scurry about the apartment preparing for a long workday.
Not today, though. Not today.
The only body part I turn towards the left is my head, careful not to move anything else lest I shake the bed too much.
Good, he is still asleep.
I stare at him for a while longer, lying on his back with his face turned away from me, his hands in a this-is-a-stickup position, and his breathing quick but rhythmic.
Good, still asleep, I repeat in my mind before turning my head back slowly to face the ceiling once more.
I try to lose myself in slow, random thoughts but the lure of the day is intense, working up the brain cells to a dizzying pace against my will.
It isn’t just the necessary chores egging me on either, but leisure activities that aren’t always possible to get to on busy weekdays: reading, surfing, TV.
Get out of bed now, I hear the Me inside my mind saying.
Every minute in bed is a wasted one. You don’t have much time, there’s so much to do!
Battling the inertia built up from consecutive breakneck speed days, I close my eyes and breathe deeply.
It feels like an attempt to slow down a 10-wheeler truck by pulling on a rope held between my teeth; fighting off this addiction equating constant action with productivity seems futile.
I open my eyes and turn my head in time to see him snuggling up towards me.
“Good morning, Timmy,” I whisper.
“Good morning, Dada,” he whispers back while grabbing my arm for a hug.
I lie on my side to face him. He clips my arm under his – as if he knew of my intentions – and falls fast asleep once more.
Locked in a grip deceivingly strong for my son’s young, 5-year-old frame, my urge to begin the day’s activities begins to ebb.
I can just make out the time on the digital clock atop the bookshelf.
Normally by this time, the light streaming in from the east-facing window is a bright yellow, but it remained the same dull gray, keeping the room enveloped in dawn-like darkness.
I took that as a sign. If even the sun refuses to rise on this cool November morning, why should I?
Wondering for whom the action is more soothing, I begin patting Timmy’s thigh out of habit and slowly shut my eyes, unaware of when the patting stops.
That may be all I need
In darkness she is all I see
Come and rest your bones with me
Driving slow on Sunday morning
And I never want to leave
— "Sunday Morning," Maroon 5
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Michael G. Yu is a loving father and husband who currently works for a Chinese-owned multinational company in Hong Kong as head of Corporate Human Resources.
He first wrote for Rappler in April. Then he joined our Mother's Day celebration month by writing a tribute to his wife. In August, he blogged for us about Soc Villegas, autism and the challenges of parenthood.
His most recent piece for us is a blog about being a non-expert in changing his baby girl's diapers.