I am not a morning person. Once upon a time I was a morning person, back when I was in the Air Force. I loved mornings then, because I was up before the sun and I loved all the sounds of the base as it sprung to life; the early morning workouts and the delicious breakfasts (which anyone who has been in the USAF would probably call me crazy for saying), and of course getting right to work pestering trainees to get their crap together faster. For a brief period of time after Delaney was born I liked mornings too. Mostly because here in Phoenix during late spring/early summer, sunrise occurs amazingly at 5am. I would sit in bed and nurse Delaney and just watch the sky lighten and the colors of the leaves change. It was great.
But the rest of the time I hate mornings.
My friend, Chronic (her name is actually Melissa, but as USAF buddies I took to calling her “Chronic” which is based off her last name), saw this photo and mentioned that it looked a little frightening. Like my head was decapitated and just lying there on the floor with a dead stare.
I honestly hadn’t even thought about it, nor was I going for such an effect, but it is actually quite fitting for how I feel in the morning. Between kids screaming, changing diapers, feverish feedings and the ten-thousand other things that need to occur in the first hour of waking, I often feel like a chicken with its head cut off. I’m running around like crazy but my brain is screaming for me to go back to bed where it’s comfy, warm and oh so nice.
I’m sure if I managed more sleep I’d find mornings to be a lot easier, but Delaney isn’t allowing me that luxury yet, even at 8 months. The punk.
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