My alarm rang at 6:30 this morning. And then again at 6:38, 6:46, 6:52, 7:00 and 7:08. Then, I dragged my sorry butt out of bed, and went to fake my way through cheerful "good mornings" with my children, who were all about as happy to get out of bed this morning as I was. Unfortunately, this is not a rare occurrence. As a family, we just aren't morning people.
I've had a few good mornings in my life. You know, Christmases and mornings when I'm totally jet-lagged and miraculously wake up at 6 a.m. bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. (Wow, that's a strange expression.) I love those mornings, and the lovely, long days that follow.
Inevitably, no matter how lovely, I just can't sustain mornings. The reality of watery eyes, dry mouth, stuffy nose, sore feet, and general grumpiness sets in. I sleep later than I want, I am short tempered, and then feel perpetually guilty because of it.
All that being said, my own sense of optimism prevails. Every night, I set my alarm, and vow to do better the next day. Maybe one of these days, I will.
