It's my work-from-home day.
Jack wakes up this morning, only slightly more wound-up than usual, chattering away as I drag myself to the dining room table and try to focus on the squiggly lines that make up my audio files. He leaves for a few minutes, then brings back Starbucks drinks for both of us.
He really doesn't need the caffeine though.
Usually when he's in this kind of a mood, I don't respond to much of what he's saying, because I've found that he doesn't actually need me to complete these conversations of his. If there's no answer, he simply keeps talking. And talking. And talking. And talking. And then singing a little. And then talking some more.
When I finally say "what's up with you," he begins singing the song from Kenan Thompson's SNL skit, "What up with that." And then he stops abruptly.
I gotta stop singing, Cheetles. My fro is about to pop out.
When I say "I don't know what to do with you," he raises both arms and sings "Rejoice, Rejoice, Emmanuel" in an exaggerated falsetto. And that triggers a six-minute monologue about how he used to play that in church for midnight mass.
You know that song, Cheetles? It's the song we sing at Christmas! And I used to play it on my trumpet for Midnight Mass. Remember how I played at Midnight Mass? I would play and I would be the only music. No other music. Just me. That's kind of nerve-wracking, Cheetles. But it's okay. Because I'm awesoommmmmeeeee. Remember the song, Cheetles? It goes "Rejoice, Rejoice, Emmaaaaanuel, hm hm hm hm hm hm hm hm hm hmmmmmm."
And then he looks around the empty room and whispers like he has a big secret that's just between us.
That's the part where I don't know the lyrics.
It's like he gets extra words while he sleeps that he must use in the first two hours that he's awake.
At one point, he emergs from the hallway, puts his arms and legs out in a running position, freezes, and makes a sound-effect.
Then he unfreezes and walks casually across the room. Just as he's about to reach the kitchen on the other side, he looks over at me, then points at the trail behind him where he had just walked.
"See, that's all just a blur," he explains matter-of-factly as he continues his walk out of the room, and I realize what he was doing: he was being a super-hero, like the Flash or Superman, who had super-speed.
And maybe the super-speed was imagined, but I'm pretty sure that Jack does actually have super-morning-personness.
It's a shame only villains have that super-power.