“Molly, it’s time to get up,” I whispered softly. The child-sized lump underneath the blankets didn’t move. “You’ve got to get ready for school,” I said. The lump stirred and shifted, a bird’s nest of tangled hair emerging. Six-year-old Molly stared at me with groggy, unfocused eyes, opened her mouth and muttered “bleeeeeeuurrgggghhh”. My sentiments exactly. Assuming she’d be upright eventually, I headed over to three-year-old Andy’s room. Holy moly, what happened in here? It looked like a drunken weasel had had a party! Blankets were kicked onto the floor, stuffed animals were hanging from the light fixture, and Andy was sprawled on his bed like a cartoon starfish. “Hey buddy, it’s time to get dressed. You have preschool today,” I said, opening the curtains. Andy rolled over without opening his eyes, rubbed his face, and mumbled the classic line: “just five moah minutes.” A man after my own heart!
Mornings are tough; mornings in the winter are especially hard. The sky is dark, the air is frigid, and the bed is so darn warm. To be yanked out of sweet black nothingness only to face an ice cold floor is a special kind of torture. I’d spend the entire season in bed if I could, emerging in the spring like a wide-eyed fawn. Alas, I’m a mother, so it’s my job to stumble out of bed, and rouse my offspring into the day. Why be miserable alone when you can be miserable together? The only happy creature in the mornings is the dog, and that’s because he goes outside and chases birds. He’s got more energy as a senior canine than I’ve had my whole life.
Miserable morning moods must be genetic. Andy and Molly are as lethargic and cranky as I am once the sun’s up. I’ve cursed them with my sluggish “get up and go”. On the other hand, my husband, Jeremy, is as sprightly as a blue jay when he awakes. He’s often up, dressed, and drinking coffee before I even open my swollen eyes. Isn’t he the worst? No matter how early or late I hit the sack, I always need more sleep. My perfect day would be spent curled up in bed, with rainfall softly pattering on the window. No interruptions, no diapers that need changing, just blissful, warm, unconsciousness. I’d love to be a morning person – think of how much I’d accomplish! The house would be clean, meals would be made, laundry folded, and……. oh, who am I kidding? I could be Mary Poppins and I’d still be a lumbering, exhausted elephant before eight am. I’m just like Andy; on my tombstone will be the inscription “just five more minutes!”
