Mornings during the school year were something of a production for me. I wasn’t exactly a morning curmudgeon, but I wouldn’t have called myself a ray of sunshine either. 

My brain tended to boot up about ten minutes before my alarm—though, truth be told, it was never really off. At night, it just gave me permission to shut down… or maybe it just slipped into standby mode.

Once my brain started pestering my body to get moving, I bargained with myself to keep my eyes closed just a little longer. Eventually, the battle was lost, and I begrudgingly rolled out of bed, dragging myself to the bathroom for the morning cleansing ritual. The shower didn’t exactly snap me into full consciousness, but it was a start.

Now—waking a high school teenager? That was an entirely different art form. It involved sighs, groans, hostage-level negotiations, and the occasional dramatic flop back onto the bed, as if I’d just asked her to solve world hunger before breakfast.

The alarm clock’s first beep could summon a grumble so fierce it might have registered on the Richter scale. By the time she finally shuffled out of her room, hair in a half-rebel, half-asleep mess, it was clear the universe still hadn’t finished its negotiations with her brain.

But dad had a job to do.

Her cleansing ritual was more like Mission: Impossible. Her mission—should she choose to accept it—was to shower and dress in 20 minutes. The water offered a slight brightening effect, though if you blinked, you might miss it. Once dressed, it became a matter of packing up and deciding if breakfast would be at home, at school, or courtesy of a 7-Eleven stop on the way.

The morning sun was just peeking over the rooftops as we walked out of the house and climbed into my truck. The drive to school was short—just enough time for one or two of my infamous dad jokes before the chaos of the day took over.

“Hey, kiddo,” I started, sipping my coffee. “What do you call a magical dog?”

She barely glanced up from the window, arms crossed, clearly not ready for human contact.

“Don’t do it,” she warned, eyes narrowing.

I grinned wider. “A labracadabrador. Duh.”

Cue the eye roll so hard it could have powered the truck.

She turned, glared at me through her hair.
“Really, Dad? Really?”

“You know,” I said, “we should really do our own TikToks. Me with the dad jokes, you with your reactions—your ratings. It’d be a hit.”

“Nope. Not gonna happen.”

Traffic was light that morning. The only real interruptions came from the radio and snack decisions. We stopped for fuel. Starbucks espresso in a tiny can for me, powdered donuts and chocolate milk for her.

“Dad, can I get some chips too? I can have those at lunch.”

“Sure,” I said, tossing them on the counter with a grin.

Back in the truck, with the windows slightly fogged and the sun climbing a little higher over Calexico, I went for one more.

“Hey, kiddo! Do you know where I keep all my jokes?” I asked, grinning ear to ear like the Joker.

She sighed heavily. “Where?”

“In my Dad-a-base!”

“OMG, Dad!”

She laughed in that way where she was mostly annoyed… but not entirely.

Later, in my office, she waited for first period to start, sipping her chocolate milk and scrolling her phone. The office ladies began to stroll in, practically singing “Good morning” as they passed by.

I leaned in with a mischievous grin. “What do you call a cow with no legs?”

She looked at me—the look that screamed No. Not another one.

“Ground beef!”

She closed her eyes, slowly nodded back and forth—but she was smiling.

“Dad. I told you that one.”

The bell rang.

She collected her things, threw her backpack over her shoulder, and headed for the door.

I hit her with one more. “How do you organize a space party?”

Blank stare.

“You planet!” bah-dym-tss.

With a passive wave and a real smile, she walked off saying, “Still NOT doing the TikTok thing,” and giggled.

That’s my girl.

“Bye, Dad.”

“Bye, sweetie.”

And just like that, I was left with my thoughts, the day’s work calling, and my caffeine starting to work its magic.

I’m not necessarily a morning person, per se—but I loved how my days started.

I’ll miss those most this school year.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.