Morning Light

I am not a morning person. Shocking, I know, considering the sunny disposition I display the remainder of the day. Honestly, I don't really warm up to the world until about 10am. I should get a job working nights.
I am, however, the mother of three miniature "morning people". God has a sense of humour. To add insult to injury, I find myself bound for the duration of my natural life to a rather handsome "morning man". It's like the universe hates me, and I can't even get my eyes open yet.

The beginning of my day is dependent upon the sun. Literally. Despite my heroic efforts to block any molecule of light from entering my house before noon, my children smell the sunlight and shoot from their beds at any ridiculous hour. I have hung heinous looking roller shades, covered by room darkening curtains, and, in desperation, draped flannel sheets over the window in my kids' room in an effort to squeak out an extra 15 minutes in the morning. My efforts were for naught.

Day after day, I fight the fight of a tired woman. Day after day, I lose. My three little angels are tucked safely in their bedroom - like bats in a cave. I have made every effort to keep the darkness absolute. The night before, I will scamper around in the darkness looking for sources of light, such as that room freshener in the laundry room that some childless sadist created with a nightlight hidden in the back. Don't they know toddlers can see light through walls?? I drop into a moderate-to-profound coma satisfied that my house is indeed pitch black, and I can sleep indefinitely.

6:00 am. An hour best left to roosters and the guy who makes my morning bagels. A rather sweaty little hand pokes randomly at my face. A round, bald head smashes up against my forehead and with a waft of morning breath, I hear, "Mommy, I'm here". "I'm all done sleepin', let's got play". The voice repeats this series. I ignore at least the first 40 seconds of this, until his pitch changes and he starts the litany of reasons why I cannot remain in my blissful stupor. "I'm thirsty...I want breakfast....I need juice...I wanna watch a movie...let's go play trains....It's morning Mommy, I don't wanna sleep, you're all done sleepin' " Ahh! If he still gets the coma-mama treatment, he will play his ace and say sweetly "I love my mom - here I'll help you; come wiss me". By helping, he means pushing my eyelids open, snatching my blankets and tugging mightily on my arms, as though I may actually be physically incapacitated by sleep.
My feet hit the floor (my eyes refuse to open), and my only conscious thought is whether or not anyone has had the good sense to invent intravenous coffee yet. Millions of dollars spent on perfecting butt lifts and tummy tucks, and what for?? I say if you really want to do womankind a favor, invent coffee I can consume BEFORE I have to get out of my bed.
I stumble to the living room muttering about how it's the middle of the night, and shushing my now ecstatic son. I've been know to threaten to end his life this minute if he wakes up his sisters. My first task is to change his diaper before it explodes. I remove his pj's and say a quick prayer it is just a wet one - anything else and I'm going to be forced to open my eyes (you only make that mistake once). Next it's on to fresh juice cups, prebreakfast snack, and the shocking realization that whoever sublets my kitchen at night has left one hell of a mess - again. Now, if I can only go pee before the girls get up....