To say that I am not a morning person would be the understatement of the century. I’ve NEVER been a morning person. EVER. Even when I’m physically up and moving, I’m not really awake until at least 10a.m. Even coffee doesn’t always help.
I’ve somehow managed to surround myself with morning people. My best friend and college roommate was an early riser. And she could jump out of a dead sleep and answer the phone and sound refreshed and like she’d been awake for hours. Dan is a morning person, too. I just don’t get it.
Growing up, my mom, who is the epitome of a morning person, used to come into my room singing to wake me up in the morning. I hated it. I would throw the pillow or covers or both over my head and try to drown out her annoying “Wake up, wake up” song (or whatever she was singing that day) and I would beg her to stop singing. I HATED it.
This morning, I realized something.
Maybe my mom was faking it all those years.
I went into Joshua’s room this morning to get him dressed for the day and he had his little head all turtled up and he smiled at me as I turned on the light. I immediately burst into a huge smile and started going “Gooood MOOOORRRNINNNGGG” in this bubble-gum, happyhappy voice.
Um, who am I and what have I done with myself?!?!
I sing to him “Good morning, good morning to you” (just the phrase…I don’t think it’s an actual song) every.single.day. Without fail.
I have become my mother. Which leads me to wonder if maybe she was faking her enthusiasm all those years.
I mean, I’m not really thrilled to be awake when I’m singing to Joshua, but seeing his beautiful, happy face makes me want to smile, too. So maybe at some point early on, my mother was as exhausted and anti-mornings as I am and just learned over time to enjoy and appreciate being up early. If that’s the case, then maybe there’s hope for me yet.