We’re night owls, for the most part, and we all have a… well, hatred is probably too strong of a word, but it will do for now… for the morning hours.
I’ve been dealing with this in a responsible grown up fashion since I graduated college (admittedly, I broke down occasionally as an undergrad and missed some of those 8:00am classes). Even while I was in college, I got up when it was necessary for me to roll out of bed to make it to my summer job (which in two cases was a bakery and a slaughterhouse, both of which required me to present myself ready to labor away at 6 am or earlier).
So it’s demonstrably true that I have dealt with my genetic disease quite well, all things considered.
My wife is not the same breed of night owl. While she and I very often stay up too late (relatively speaking, given when we have to get up), she can probably count the number of times she’s passed 2 am in a wakeful state on two hands*. The practical implication of this is that even prior to parenthood, I’ve generally been in bed by 1 am, and up before 8 (9 at the latest). Layabouting in bed until 9:30 or 10:00 am on a weekend has been well-nigh impossible, as Kitty simply can’t stay in bed that late, and activity generally prevents me from going back to sleep.
Since we’ve had children, of course, this has all been moot. Jack and Hannah are like drill sergeants, driving their parents mercilessly to providing observational duties of one sort or another during the AM hours.
Today I’m in Albuquerque. The kids are home with Grandma, Auntie Ann, and Auntie Bacon on shifts (bless them all collectively a thousand times). Kitty is racing around prepping for various activities relating to her high school reunion. And I got out of bed at 12:30 pm today.
For the first time in five years, I have defeated morning’s stranglehold on me. TAKE THAT.
* (ed. note -> this is exaggerated for effect. While Kitty has been known to burn the midnight oil, she’s not quite in the category that I am)