I hate almost everything about the morning. The birds that chirp incessantly. The blinding rays of light that infiltrate the curtains. Even the name itself, which conjures up visions of a funeral for nighttime. The best use of a good morning is unconsciousness until lunch.
My parents claim I didn’t always feel this way. Apparently — back before I knew any better — I made a practice of 6:00 a.m. wake-up calls. Mom and Dad would often roll out of bed onto me curled up on the floor in their comforter. (Of course, they ignore the fact that I was sleeping soundly at the time.) The ‘rents also point to Saturday morning and Christmas as examples of how I couldn’t stand to sleep in the morning. As any former kid knows, however, holidays and Scooby Doo are not admissible evidence. They represent the only times children have to themselves without a mandate to get up to go to church, school or some relative’s reunion.
While I can fess up to being less annoyed by the pre-noon day as a youth, I can also pinpoint the time when it became painful to awaken before 10:00 a.m. Central … Puberty.
Much more than my voice changed in those awkward years. So did the expectations to produce results by eight in the morning. Teachers handed out reading assignments and homework, requiring later and later nights to complete. The school days were an hour later for the big kids, which set me back in my television viewing schedule and drastically reduced the prime hours for fulfilling my extensive snipe hunting duties. And the older I got, the more controlling the 9-to-5 routine seemed. It is only because New Coke was a complete flop that I am able to medicate myself into consciousness each morning with an appropriate canned beverage.
I write this as way of explaining the great sacrifice I am making for my lone child. I am forcing myself away from the common sense that has ruled my sleeping habits over the past couple decades and towards a life of sunrises, crickets and — gulp — breakfast.
Since I do not wear the mammary glands in this family, I have tried to look for other ways to contribute to Carter’s care. One of the ways I have been most helpful is by allowing Amy some quality sleep from 5 a.m. throughout the morning.
My wife will lovingly ask me to get up and change Carter’s butter-flavored diaper. After a quick snack at Mom’s, Carter rejoins me in the office for some quality time with Dad and Dad’s web site development clients. It is only after I boot up the computer and log on that I realize it is about 5 hours before my body clock reminds me to hit snooze.
I have my doubts about this setup lasting very long. Since we still only go to sleep after a full night of TV, movies or TV, I’ve been running on four or five hours sleep since Carter was born. I’ve pulled all-nighters before that were less draining than this constant up-before-dawn assignment. And this is without work getting in the way. I spent two weeks away from Indiana University completely and will spend the rest of February working only afternoons. I dread the return to full time. Let me clarify: I dread the return to full time so much I have contemplated Marrying a Millionaire on FOX.
Since the reality of this sunrise arrangement is fleeting, I can admit to a certain empowerment holding me son and helping him greet the new day. It’s like going to a baseball game early and watching the stadium fill up. First the garbage truck, then the school busses and morning commuters. Warmer weather has even brought a sweet chirping from somewhere high in the branches of a nearby tree. Carter and I get to see it all unfold, together in a rocking chair looking out a big picture window.
Scooby Doo is no more. Christmas only comes once a year. Into that void steps Carter as the only sane reason in the world to get up at the crack of dawn. I feel most awake watching him watch the world.
