Three men, three mornings

Thirty-year-old George Matthews III jerked awake, startled by the cries of his infant son, George IV. His wife, Ashley, was already rising from her side of the bed to tend to the baby.

"Relax, I've got this one," George croaked, his aching lumbar protesting the slightest movements.

"Oh, sweetie, thank you." Ashley was back asleep within seconds.

George padded into his son's room and scooped him out of the crib. He hugged his son closely to his chest, stroking the back of his downy head. The baby relaxed instantly at the sight and smell of his father.

After young George was changed and fully engaged with a warm bottle of Enfamil, George III relaxed into a living room chair with his son perfectly perched in the crook of his forearm. The young dad scanned his Blackberry; he had made it a morning habit to read the day's headlines to his boy.

"Hmm... Obama's approval rating is at an all-time low. I hope he weathers this storm, little man."

He navigated the device to a screen the day's client visits. "I don't recognize this address and the GPS is out on the Audi. I'll just have to use Mapquest."

George IV stared at his father, as if actually pondering the statement...and burped loudly.


Thirty-year-old George Matthews, Jr. jerked awake, startled by the cries of his infant son, George III. His wife, Cheryl, was already rising from her side of the bed to tend to the baby.

"Relax, I've got this one," George croaked, his aching lumbar protesting the slightest movements.

"Thank you, sweetie." Cheryl scooted up into her familiar nursing position as her husband approached with their wailing son. The baby relaxed instantly at the sound and smell of his mother, and quickly nestled in for his breakfast.

George, Jr. settled into the bedside rocker and clicked the remote to turn on The Today Show, one of his morning routines. During a commercial break he looked down at his son, commenting on the day's top story. "Hmm... Carter's approval rating is at an all time low. I hope he weathers this storm, little man."

The elder George grabbed his weekly planner off the nightstand and scanned the day's appointments. "I don't recognize this address. I guess I'll have to check the Thomas Guide out in the Pinto. Honey, when you're done there, will you iron me a shirt, lightly starched? Oh, and can you lay out my favorite paisley tie?"

"Sure, honey."

George III stared at his father, as if actually pondering the statement...and burped loudly.


Thirty-year-old George Matthews jerked awake, startled by the cries of his infant son, George, Jr. His wife, Millie, was already rising as George rolled onto his back to clear his groggy head.

"Honey, after you get the baby, can you put on the coffee?"

"Sure, dear." Millie quickly disappeared into the hallway. "And your suit is pressed and laid out in my sewing room. I'll make you some breakfast while you shower."

George rose slowly, his aching lumbar protesting the slightest movements. He threw on his bathrobe and retrieved the newspaper from the front porch, an ingrained morning ritual. "Hmm... Truman's approval rating is at an all time low."

"What did you say, dear?" Millie yelled from the baby's room.

George ignored her question. "I hope he weathers this storm." He pulled up a chair at the kitchen table and reached for his list of appointments, prepared a day prior by his secretary. "Millie!" he barked, "I need to get going. One of these addresses is three counties over. Did you fill up the Edsel yesterday?"

"Yes, George."

From across the house, George heard the sound of his baby burping.