Every Sunday morning, I wake up at 6am. I have to set the alarm clock because the Lord knows I could never wake up in time on my own. For the past two Sundays, I've been waking up in the dark.
Joy of joys.
I'm not really complaining. Really. It's just a little disconcerting. It takes coffee and a hot shower to wake up and after a little while, I begin to wake the boys.
The experience of waking in the dark has them bewildered, but they are my little troopers. No one cries or complains at the indecent hour.
The quietness of the early morning is instantly shattered by the happy chatter. Constant questions repeated over and over are asked in order to jar my sleep-deprived brain into answering.
After rushing them through a breakfast of cereal, I hustle them upstairs to wrestle them into their clothes and put some semblance of order to their hair. Brushing of the teeth is a must.
By 7:30am, I slam the front door shut with a prayer that I haven't forgotten anything. Most days, I have forgotten something and must unlock the door in order to retrieve said forgotten object.
Occasionally muttering under my breath and most Sundays growling, "Argh!", I peal out of the driveway to begin what has become a routine weekly trip to the mountains.
Every Sunday, we drive two hours to our church.
After these months that have flown by, the trip doesn't seem so long anymore. This past Sunday, it was even a little fun.
I looked in my rearview mirror to see a blond, curly head bobbing up and down in time to Alvin and the Chipmunks sing a song about a bad day.
When I see that, it's just about worth it to get up in the dark.
Joy of joys.
I'm not really complaining. Really. It's just a little disconcerting. It takes coffee and a hot shower to wake up and after a little while, I begin to wake the boys.
The experience of waking in the dark has them bewildered, but they are my little troopers. No one cries or complains at the indecent hour.
The quietness of the early morning is instantly shattered by the happy chatter. Constant questions repeated over and over are asked in order to jar my sleep-deprived brain into answering.
After rushing them through a breakfast of cereal, I hustle them upstairs to wrestle them into their clothes and put some semblance of order to their hair. Brushing of the teeth is a must.
By 7:30am, I slam the front door shut with a prayer that I haven't forgotten anything. Most days, I have forgotten something and must unlock the door in order to retrieve said forgotten object.
Occasionally muttering under my breath and most Sundays growling, "Argh!", I peal out of the driveway to begin what has become a routine weekly trip to the mountains.
Every Sunday, we drive two hours to our church.
After these months that have flown by, the trip doesn't seem so long anymore. This past Sunday, it was even a little fun.
I looked in my rearview mirror to see a blond, curly head bobbing up and down in time to Alvin and the Chipmunks sing a song about a bad day.
When I see that, it's just about worth it to get up in the dark.
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