While you are probably counted among the many whose sleepy eyes don’t pop open until they are greeted by the woodsy steam of their morning brew, I don’t fully emerge from dreamland until the sweet tart pulp of orange juice washes away all the sleep from my mouth.

I, like my mother, love orange juice first thing in the morning. And by first thing, I mean I stumble out of bed and lead my slippers directly to the fridge. It’s best not to talk to me until after I’ve had my orange juice. My mouth doesn’t work, my brain doesn’t work, really I’m quite useless.

On Tuesday morning I made my bleary-eyed path to the kitchen with my pint-sized shadow pattering behind me. I opened the fridge and found a large glass of pre-poured orange juice sitting on top of a hand-written note.

“Oh, Ava look,” I said as I lifted the drink towards my mouth, “Daddy poured Mama some juice, and he left me a note.”

The first sweet sip confirmed my suspicion that Nate had woken up early that morning and hand-pressed enough oranges to pour me a tall glass with freshly squeezed orange juice and paired it with a love note.

“Can I try some? Can I have some too?” she asked as she hopped around in delight and pulled her own cup out of her drawer.

Together we drank in the delicious juice as we discussed what a wonderful daddy she had.

Ava was absolutely delighted to discover that in the world of ordinary things, one might open a door a find a surprise. For the past four mornings, Ava has run to the fridge shouting, “Let’s see if Daddy left us a note!”

Each morning she has whipped open the door, taken a peek, and then shut it with a sigh, “No note.”

This morning, her daddy was still home and watched her run through her note searching routine.

“There is no note. I didn’t get a note. I NEVER get a note!” she exclaimed, “When am I going to get a note?” She stomped out of the kitchen, ran into her room and threw herself on her bed.

I did not just make that up.

She reappeared a few moments later and I asked her if she was feeling better. She looked up at me and shouted, “Ehhhh!” and then repeated the previously described scene. Apparently the first time did not achieve the desired response.

I followed her into her room and found her in a face down heap on her mattress. I proceeded to “search” for her in her room. As I pretended to look for her behind her rocking chair and under her bed, more and more giggles erupted from the pouting child.

Finally, I declared that I was too tired to search anymore and needed to sit down. I gently plopped myself down on her prostrate person. Of course, she yelped and I responded, “Oh this bed seems to have a squeak.” I sat back down on her and she quickly squirmed out, laughing at my folly. I pulled her in for a hug and her lip resumed the pouting posture, “Why don’t I get a note?”

“Daddy gave me that orange juice because I’m his special wife.”

“I want to be his special too!”

“You are special to him. You are his very special daughter, but not everyone gets the same special things. Daddy does special things just for you, Ava. Does Daddy hold me in his lap and read me books?”

“No,” she replied giggling at the absurdity.

“Does Daddy sit on the floor with me and make puzzles?”

“No,” more giggles.

“Does Daddy twirl me around and do drops when I’m sad?”

“No.”

“See Daddy does lots of special things for you. Different people get different special things.”

“Like when it’s Henri’s birf-day,” she asked, “and people get special things for him? And it’s for him and not me ’cause it’s his special birf-day!”

“Yes, just like that. And we can be happy for the person when they get special things. You can be happy that Daddy made me a special drink because that shows that he loves me. And it is very special to have a Daddy who loves your Mommy.”

She bounced off her bed, rebounding from her bad mood in a way that only three-year-olds can, and then raced me to the front door to see who would get more goodbye kisses from Daddy.

About a half-hour later, she pulled back the curtain as I was rinsing lemon sage Bliss out of my hair and declared:

“Mama, you don’t have to worry about things, ’cause God always takes care of you. And He gives different things to different people. And you don’t have to worry just like I was worrying about getting a note. And I don’t have to worry about the note ’cause different people get different special things and God knows what special things we need so you don’t have to worry.”

She closed the curtain and pranced off before I had to chance to give her a squeeze and say, “Ava, you are my special thing!”