I’m finally admitting something to myself:  I’m not a morning person. 

There.  I said it.

For the last year, I’ve been going through a re-discovery of self or rather an inital discovery of self.  My mother is a morning person through and through.  She would wake up naturally every morning at 6:30, and put down anyone who slept later than 8:00.  There are things to be done!  Items on lists to be checked off!  A world to conquer!  How is it possible to get anything done if you are just barely cracking your eyes open at 8:38? (Doesn’t that time just sound delectable?  Like garlic butter on a freshly baked bread or silky chocolate coating a perfectly sweet strawberry?  8:38.  Num)

As the alarm startled me from sleep again this morning at 6, I let out a big sigh.  If responsibility didn’t make swinging my legs over the edge of the bed an obligation, I know that I would have slipped happily back into my dreams.  The Mister doesn’t dream.  It’s an unbelievable fact, but it’s true.  It’s not that he’s never had a dream, he does, but rarely.  When his head hits the pillow until the alarm rings in the new morning, it’s as if time and space don’t exist.  He just isn’t.  My dreams are comfortable, full of adventure and just a plain pleasant way to pass my time.  I thoroughly enjoy sleep because of my dreams.  I often remember them, too.  Some of them are significant insights into struggles that I’m facing and others are just weird.  Exhibit A: once I dreamt that I was a boiled potato and the blender was coming towards me to make into mashed potatos.  I was terrified!  I woke up covered in sweat and my heart racing.  Exhibit B: I dreamt that I was sitting behind a girl at some function.  I made farting noises and blew into her hair to make her think someone had farted on her head.  I woke up mildly amused and somewhat confused (do I have deep seated desires for noggin-flatulence?). 

When the alarm goes off at 6 a.m, I hit the snooze button once so that I can have 1o minutes to bid adieu to dreamland and transition into reality.  Rarely do I wake up, with an alarm or naturally, and immediately think that I’m ready to get up.  After about 10 minutes, I can think semi-clearly and function (even use sharp objects!), but those first moments are filled with a lot of negative thoughts towards the early hours.  The Mister, however, needs no such transition time.  When it’s time to get up, he goes from a dead sleep to a sitting position and then stumbles out of bed.  There is little to no transition.  Charlie is the same way.  When I walk into his room, he’s sound asleep.  I say, “Charlie.  Time to get up, bud.”  He sits up.  Rubs his eyes and makes his way to the edge of the bed.  Lola is like me.  She needs a lot of time and back rubbing to ease her into the day.  The perfect formula for making certain that Lola and I have a bad day is to insist that we wake up quickly.  That route never ends well.   

I love everything about sleep.  From the moment I slip between my bamboo sheets (ironed flat and crisp!  Ahhh!), I am in bliss.  I love my sheets, I love my pillow (contoured for side sleepers), I love my routine of reading before sleep, I love digging deep under the covers with my toes and the sensation that goes through me as I finally relax into my pillow.  I love the feeling of slipping into a dream.  Pity is what I feel for people who suffer with insomnia or have to fight their way to sleep.  It’s like finding out that someone doesn’t like chocolate, or Nibs.  How is life enjoyable at all without those little accents of happiness? 

So there it is.  I hate mornings.  I love sleep.  8 hours left and counting.  Tomorrow is the weekend – perhaps the magical number (8:38) will be on my clock before I first open my eyes in the morning.  One can dream, can’t she?