Daylight Schmaylight

Anyone who is close to me knows that early rising is not a problem for me. Nine o'clock feels like I've slept the day away, and I prefer to get up and get going.

That said, anyone who is close to me also knows that Andy is my polar opposite in every way, including in sleep philosophies. Usually, I heckle and complain about the imbalanced morning responsibilities in the Burt home, but without any real fervor because I know I'd be awake - with or without kids.

That all went out the window last Sunday.

You see, I do love waking up early, but I love it because it's my only time to be completely alone. I get up, creep out of the house and go running or to the gym, and if I'm really ambitious, I may even hit the grocery store all before my kiddies and/or husband begin to stir. For a working mom who spends the rest of her day putting out fires under tight deadlines and then comes home to cooking and cleaning and bathtime and playtime and and and and and, that one unfettered pre-daylight hour is a mirage of bliss amidst the hurricane of chaos that is life with small children.

Enter Daylight Savings Time. With the back-turn of the clock's hour hand, my early-morning solitude has been snatched from my fingertips, thanks to a too-early rising sun and two rooster-minded children whose eyelids snap open with the break of day. And with that backwards step in time, I am becoming increasingly desperate for a solution and find myself wishing P and N had inherited their father's sleep habits instead of mine.

Beginning Sunday morning, and continuing every morning since, Nora has awoken promptly at 5:15 a.m. After some ignoring that turns her whines to screams, and then some rocking and shushing, I can usually get her back to sleep (and mind you, I am not usually a rocker and shusher; I prefer the cry it out method, and until now, my kiddos have been model children in the sleep department). By then, Porter and his tattered green blanket have stumbled out of bed with demands for a cartoon and breakfast. And just like that, 5:00 has turned in to 6:30, and I'm left recalculating my morning plans...I can brush my teeth, pop in my contacts and throw on some running garb in five minutes...the drive to the gym takes another five...and I'll probably be waiting for a treadmill for at least another five minutes after I arrive. Is the 20 minutes I'd then have at the gym worth the effort? Should I risk being late for work for the 300th day in a row (basically, since Nora was born)? Can I find the time and energy to cram some exercise in this evening instead? Will I ever be able to take a one-hour morning spin class again? Should I risk the cesspool of germs that is the gym daycare and commit to an evening workout while Andy is coaching? Could I realistically squeeze a run in to my lunch hour, and then would I really want to do the whole shower, make-up, hair routine for a second time each day? After a baby and then a foot surgery, will I ever get back in to running shape? Do I care? Should I care?

Yes! This is me taking a stand against Daylight Savings Time. It throws order and predictability to the wind and makes me cranky, flabby and jumbled. Anyone else out there wishing they lived in Arizona or Hawaii now that the clocks have jumped backwards?