I would like to get up at 5 am. There is so much that I can accomplish in those early morning hours: uninterrupted, quiet, calm, peaceful. I love that time of day.
Bill would like to get up at 6 am. He doesn’t have to leave, usually, until after 8 am, and he hates to rush. But two hours for breakfast, getting ready, and reading the Drudge Report is plenty for him.
Unfortunately, in recent weeks, we’ve been living in the Land of Nod. Bill’s classes have him “burning the midnight oil” – notice the lamps on his unit patch? They aren’t kidding.
Bill has been going to bed between midnight and 2 am, and I, stupidly, have been pushing my own bedtime later as well, I guess because I’m not used to going to bed without him. Well, I am used to going to bed without him, but without him physically anywhere nearby. I’m not used to saying goodnight to him and going to sleep while he, poor man, is making himself a cup of tea at 11 pm to help him stay awake.
Yesterday morning, I woke up at 6:53 am. (I had been up an hour earlier with the baby, but fell back asleep.) I nudged Bill to get him up, and then snuggled back into the pillow. A minute later, Bill leaned over me and broke the bad news, “You have a doctor’s appointment.” I had a half hour to get out the door with Mary for her 6 month well baby.
She went in her pajamas.
Last night, I went to bed at 10 pm. I’d like to say it was an act of discipline that put me there, but, honestly, I was loading the washing machine when Mary started to cry. Had I not had to respond to her, I would have gone on to fold the clothes I had taken out of the dryer and possibly tried to put the play room in some sort of order (read: hid 25% of the toys until I can smuggle them out of the house to donate them to the thrift store).
I’m going to force myself to drop everything at 930 pm. Maybe I’ll even set an alarm. I just can’t compete with my husband, and I shouldn’t try. Early to bed, early to rise.