Now that I’m home fulltime, I’m driving our kids to early-morning semetery, rather than relying on other people to get them there. That means getting up at 5:15, if I want to get dressed before getting in the car. But I don’t, so I get up at 5:30 and walk blindly into the dark morning, figuring no one human is up at that hour, so who cares if I’m in my pajamas?
My daughter is a morning person. No one else in our family is. She can get up at 5am and be happy. It’s like she’s an alien, or something.
She kept chattering at me on the way out the door. I said, “I know you’re talking, but I can’t tell what you’re saying.”
And she laughed.
We went to a fireside last night that they have every year for the kids to find out what semetery class they’re in, who they’re teachers are, etc etc. For some reason they make the fireside last at least an hour with all kinds of people talking. Bad idea, when I’m already grumpy, anticipating getting up at 5:30 the next day. The stake president talked about how he had a wonderful, mean mom who made him go to seminary every morning for four years. How parents have to be mean sometimes and their kids will appreciate it later.
I made my daughter wake me up this morning.
Of course, yesterday I was very ambitious. I tried to think of all the things I could do with that extra hour and a half every morning:
- Study the scriptures. The house will be silent. Perfect opportunity.
- Go out and take some sunrise photos. The sun will just be coming up. Perfect opportunity.
- Take care of some errands that will otherwise take up my afternoon—go to the bank, the grocery store. Perfect opportunity.
What I actually did:
- Went straight back home and got back into bed.
- Laid there for 30 minutes thinking about how it’ll take me at least 30 minutes to get back to sleep, and then the alarm will go off for me to go pick the kids up from seminary.
- Got up 5 minutes before the alarm went off so it wouldn’t wake up my husband and got to the seminary building early, so I played my PSP in the car and listened to Ted Leo. Perfect opportunity!
As we walked back into the house, I asked my son: “It’ll get easier after this, right?” and he looked at me like I was insane.
Best moment of the day so far: My husband getting out of bed at 7am, saying, “Seminary is going to kill me.”