I got up this morning on my own. It is really sad that this is noteworthy, but it kind of is.
I hate mornings. I know I’m not supposed to say hate, but seriously, I. hate. mornings.
It doesn’t actually seem to matter what time I get up (I mean, within reason) or how much sleep I’ve had. I just despise the process of emerging from my happy little cocoon to go face the day. I’m fine once I’m fully vertical and I’ve adjusted to the idea. But the actual getting up? Just … ugh.
Everyone else in my house – I’m convinced that this is some sort of horrifying cosmic joke – thinks that 5:00 is a great time to get out of bed. I’m told that when the boys are teenagers, this will change, but I’m not sure I can wait that long. And Paul will probably be getting up at 3:00 by then, since his morning wakefulness seems to relentlessly march back with age like other men’s hairlines. (Why can’t he just go bald and leave me in peace? These are the questions I ask myself.)
It does provide a certain amount of entertainment, though. Yesterday, Paul sent the boys in to roust me, and they came back out to the kitchen in short order. “What’d she say?” Paul inquired.
And he says he doesn’t know which boy said it, but he said, “She didn’t say anything! She just went eerrrrrrrrrrrgggghhhhh.”
That about sums it up. Too bad there’s a morning every day.