I never was a morning person until I gave birth to one, and now I'm all about that early-to-bed, early-to-rise business.
It's still dark when that little voice pipes up from the crib across the room. There's no snooze button on that alarm. Feet on the cold, creaking floor (where the hell did I leave my slippers?), scoop up and snuggle the baby close until I get the thermostat turned up and the furnace groaning to life (his face is pure sunshine, and he pats my cheeks). Turn the burner on under the tea kettle, then turn it back off because who knows how long it'll take to wrestle Sam into a fresh diaper and get his breakfast fixed and in his squirmy belly...I can't count how many times I've boiled that thing over.
When the baby's dry and fed, and Curious George is holding his attention (although I'm not sure that felonious little monkey is the best role model), I finally sit with my tea cup in hand. God bless caffeine. From this chair, I have the perfect view -- the morning sunlight is just peeking pink and orange over the tops of the foothills, dusting the frosty backs of the horses as they stir and snort their request for breakfast. The goats aren't even awake yet.
The tired doesn't even register anymore, except at night when I tuck into bed under the big afghan my momma made me. And even then, it just feels like a day lived fully. When the baby's snoring and my last goodnight has been said, my heart flutters with contentedness and love. The demons that still live inside me don't get much of my time anymore. Someimes they rise to the surface to fight with sweet dreams for my attention, but at the end of the day there's too much waiting for me on the other side of sleep to revel in their company for too long.