It’s late. It’s dark out. I’ve been awake too long.
The kid wakes up around 6 am. Sometimes earlier, rarely later.
I’ve always been a night person, and I tend to be most productive in the evenings. I have trouble getting to sleep because my brain just keeps going.
I’m much better at sleeping late than going to bed early.
I lie here trying to convince myself to just be done, put the computer down, leave the book, just go to sleep, and I remind myself that I will be tired in the morning and it won’t matter to her. She’s going to come in here and want me to be on right away.
And every time I wish she would just sleep later, or play by herself in her room until it got light out, every time I think of hearing those little feet running across the carpet, feeling her climbing up next to me.
“Mommy? Mooom? Can we watch TV?”
“Can I have something to eat? And milk?”
“Can we go downstairs?”
She’s so cheerful and cuddly and lovely that even when I hate waking up I love it.
She has a special talent.
As horrible as bedtime might have been the night before, it all goes away with those little footsteps and a whispered “Mommy?”