I wake up with a start, sitting up in bed violently, elbowing my husband.
“WHAT TIME IS IT?!” My glasses aren’t on and I’m confused, blearily looking around the room while a migraine creeps up towards my left temple.
He tells me that it’s 7 am and I breathe a sigh of relief, slowly laying back down so I can wrap my brain around getting out of bed and starting my day. I wonder why my fancy alarm clock never went off, and I glance over at it, realizing that it’s fully lit up like the sun, aimed right at my face.
I slept through it. Apparently even the fanciest alarm clock sucks just enough for me to ignore.
Lucy was out of bed approximately 17 times last night. Bed times can occasionally be a process, but last night was exceptional — what is it about ONE HOUR that throws everything off so much? I laid down early with good intentions, only for my darling four year old to constantly find her way to the foot of my bed, startling me. I’d look up and she’d be standing there – a halo of messy hair, a princess nightgown, and a new request.
A Bandaid. Fruit snacks. A movie. A cozier blanket. Socks. No socks. Water.
Dear sweet Jesus, GO TO BED CHILD.
After the fourth time and two hours after I’d put her to bed, I was no longer hiding my frustration. Out of bed I’d huff, putting her to bed, yanking the cover over her legs and storming out. Outside of her door, I’d pause. What if she dies in her sleep? What if she gets kidnapped? What if that big tree outside falls on the house and crushes her? Wearily I’d reenter her room, softly pulling the covers to her chin and giving her a kiss on the forehead.
Seriously — why are moms so weird? A tree falling on the house? Am I normal?
At 1 am she finally crashed. 1 AM — WHAT IS THIS LIFE? One hour, y’all. One hour. How does one hour wreak such havoc on a household?
As I lay in bed this morning reliving this, it suddenly dawns on me. “Babe,” I ask. “Is it actually 7? Or is it 8?”
“Crap!” he yells, jumping out of bed and running to wake up Jon David. I tell him that I will probably just keep Lucy home from preschool today. Surely she’s still sleeping and won’t be worth much after how late she was up last night.
After waking Jon David, my husband returns to the room to inform me that Lucy will be going to school. She was already up when he went out to the living room, sitting at the table. PAINTING in a Moana coloring book, of all things.
“Do you feel like going to school today?” he asked her.
“Duh,” she replied. Seven hours of sleep. Be blessed, teachers. Be blessed.
Dear Daylight Savings. You kind of suck.
Happy Monday, everyone!