I come from a long line of morning people, my mother jumpstarts her day at 3 a.m. and my grandmother used to do the same. I am about as opposite of this as you can get. In fact, I would usually be better to skip morning altogether. I’m cranky and irritable and I beg in a futile effort for just 10 more infinite minutes. As you can guess, this doesn’t work well with kids running amok.
My kids, being normal kids, usually wake bright-eyed sometime before 8. While I realize in actuality that it could be worse, it doesn’t seem possible as I’m trudging myself out of bed. Awhile back, both of my youngest were ready to go at 6:45 and I thought I would just about die. That day seemed to last forever.
It’s crossed my mind that if I could just get even an hour more sleep, the world would be my proverbial oyster.
So imagine my surprise when my kids let me sleep in. Until 9:15.
Birds were singing! The sun was shining! The angels rejoiced!
It’s a Christmas miracle!
Glory, glory hallelujah!
If only I could find some way to bottle that morning.
I really did feel like I could conquer the world. Or at least the giant pile of laundry. Of course Abby refused to nap later and Buzz pooped in his underwear which didn’t have anything to do with sleep, exactly, but my jubilance dissipated by the afternoon and it hasn’t returned since. That brief glimpse of what could be gave me hope, though.