I haven’t always been a morning person. Actually, it’s not that I’m not a morning person, I am just not the type of person who leaps out of bed happy. No, I like the slow rise, and this makes me look like a grumpy person.
In reality, I like to process the morning, to let my dry eyelids moisten as I blink awake, to take my deep breaths, smell coffee brewing, write down my plans for the day, write down my dreams, and I also have one of those resting faces so it makes all this look very painful to the outside viewer.
This morning I woke up at 6:20. I almost went back to sleep, but after feeding Henry, seeing that the sun was up and ready for the day, I decided my time would be better served writing my pages. Since then, I’ve worked out, had breakfast, taken a shower, tidied up around the house, expertly executed a French braid (using critical thinking to add some forming products to my daughter’s fine hair to keep it from falling apart), reheated my coffee a zillion times, and now I’m sitting down to write. It’s 10:43. I’m usually stumbling away from a 45 minute workout at this point in the day.
I really do love mornings. I love sunrise. I love chilly air that is slightly moistened by dew. I love getting the freshest croissant from a bakery. I love how quiet it can be (although with two kids who wake up early, that quiet lasts only until 6:50).
The dilemma is that I like sleep, and I like staying up late. It’s the time I get to spend frivolously, enjoying a movie or book or time spent with Ben (or guests). It’s the wind-down time I get after the kids go to bed. In the morning, I always feel like it’s necessary to be productive.
So I guess the answer is sleeping in the middle of the day. There’s no way around it. I’ll just have to enjoy mornings and evenings and leave the afternoons for getting that good old shut-eye. I’m kidding. But it’s a genius-ish answer to my problems.