When I was a baby, I’d sleep so late in the mornings that my mother often rushed into the room, certain I was dead. And I was. DEAD TO THE WORLD.
As I grew up, it became clear that I was simply not a morning person. I’d wake up, stomp around the house for half an hour spitting venom at anyone who dared speak to me and then be…okay. Not great, but okay.
Rather than be offended by my mutterings of “I hate you, motherfuckers,” this delighted my family to no end. My brother and father often fought over who got to wake me up. My brother generally won.
So I’d be woken up to his frantic BANG BANG BANG on the door and just as I had rolled over, realizing that I was not, in fact, eating a castle made of marshmallows, he’d burst into my room.
Often, he’d include a pot to bang.
“IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP, BE-CKY, IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP NOW!” was a favorite, although generally it was this: “RISE, AND SHINE, AND BRING OUT THE GLORY-GLORY, RISE, AND SHINE, AND SING OUT THE GLORY-GLORY.”
By the time I’d lobbed a pair of shoes at his head, I was downright furious. It’s bad enough to have to live THROUGH a morning, but to be woken up to my brother’s off-key warbling of church songs? That was fucking TORTURE.
Once I’d gotten dressed and stomped downstairs, my family would greet me one by one with, “WHY HELLLLLO, BECKY. HOW ARE YOU TODAY?”
I’d let my middle finger respond.
While this brought no end of amusement to the rest of my family, I’d always hoped that I’d grow into a morning person. After I plotted their death by torpedo or frenzied shark attack, of course.
Not so much. Their untimely deaths OR an ability to enjoy anything before ten AM.
I’ve fought against it but it turns out that I will simply never be a morning person.
Mornings are bullshit.
This week, I have to be a morning person. My preschool teacher is gone for a week, which means that I have to entertain a very bored Alex and Amelia.
It’s gin and tonic o’clock somewhere, right?
Are you a morning person? Can you come over and watch my kids for me?