My mind chooses to ignore alarm clocks subconsciously. I don't do it on purpose. I really do try to get up in the morning. Lately I've just conceded to the fact that I will never be an early riser. I'll get up early sometimes, but I definitely won't be happy about it. This hasn't been the best of situations since I became a mom. Especially a mom to 10-month-old Cahlen who likes to get up at 6am, ready to start his regular day of eating, screaming, babbling, crawling, climbing, and other baby things (read: bodily functions). At least Naiya likes to sleep in.
After sleeping through 2, maybe 3, alarms I'll open my eyes amidst the beeping and radio personality conversations to see one of three things: 1. Cahlen screaming at my face as a "good morning mommy!" as Carlos swoops him in towards me; 2. Naiya standing stoic by the bed, calmly stating that she NEEDS milk; or 3. Carlos, exasperated after 2 hours of watching morning television and attempting to keep Cahlen from eating electrical wires, saying "really, Kate, it's almost 8:30."
Then the rush begins. The blur of Cheerios, baby cereal, squealing, morning cartoons, "I don't want to", diapers, tiny clothes, cold coffee, bottles, stifled swearing after a close encounter with a stray lego piece, and the inevitable rush back up the stairs to collect the forgotten car keys, all culminates in the slamming of the car doors with the kids inside. We both take a much-needed breath of silent air.
After the hand-off to the hard-working daycare staff, and the purchase of an unnecessarily large coffee, I casually drive back home to start my day of crunching numbers, reading, and writing up results.
I'll save the description of after work for another post.
Welcome to my perspective.
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