Despite my shift from singlehood over eight years ago, I still go to bed far too late and still attempt to sleep in

H

is eyes glow in the dark, two bright blue orbs illuminating the waning darkness that blankets the bedroom. They are catlike, outlined by long lashes that make his impossibly magnetic eyes all the more alluring.

I love my toddler Chaim’s eyes. In my family, brown irises are standard; my eyes are considered unique due to their greenish tinge. Chaim has my husband’s genes, and I offer up silent thanks that at least one of my kids was bequeathed the blessing of startling, ocean blue lighting up their face.

I am awakened by those eyes now, boring into my own bland, hazel ones, which are currently caked in sleep. Chaim’s face is pressed against mine, his body leaning awkwardly sideways, and nose-to-nose, we stare each other down, determining who will break first in this war of wills.

“Imaaaa,” he repeats, for what must be the eighth time, based on the rising crescendo in his voice. “I waaaaaant cereaaaal!

I mumble something highly intelligent: “Gmhmhm.”

It is not even 6 a.m., and I am not a morning person. My response doesn’t discourage Chaim. He climbs onto my bed and screams, “Imaaa” into my ear. My response? “Arghhh,” as I put the pillow over my head.

Finally, he digs his chubby legs underneath my own and quite literally rolls me off the bed.

“Okay!” I declare, admitting defeat, “I’m up.” I’m attempting to give the illusion that this was a choice. They have to at least think I’m the one in control. I shuffle to the kitchen; through eyes at half-mast, I clumsily distribute cereal, sloppily pour milk. I’m none too glad to be awake at this ungodly hour. I’m vertical; that’s all I can acquiesce to right now. No conversation until my coffee is consumed.

My mother, an annoyingly chipper, early-early morning bird (5:30 a.m. is “sleeping in” for her), always berated me for my bad habit of burning the midnight oil. I’m a night person. Throughout my teenage years, every evening at about 11 p.m., I’d get an adrenaline rush and remember all the things I had to urgently take care of for the very next day. Pressure spurred me on, and the quiet of the late night was a background song, encouraging my productivity.

Alas, my mother was right again, as old habits do in fact die hard. Despite my shift from singlehood over eight years ago, I still go to bed far too late and still attempt to sleep in. Every morning. Through the dim racket of fights ensuing, toys breaking, dishes crashing, I cling to the last remaining tendrils of sleep. Just a few more minutes…

Predictably, I berate myself for turning in so late the night before. I should probably get myself onto a better schedule. But somehow, Habit (read: Laziness) wins over Rationality every time.

I’ve tried leaving out breakfast, toys, games, markers…. To no avail. Apparently these things are only interesting if Mommy is there to witness the mess, to take part in the make believe. And truth be told, it’s probably not the best idea to let my six-year-old be the one in charge, despite how mature and capable he is.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 648)