Ever since the pandemic started, my son began rising at 5 a.m., which meant I was rising at 5 a.m. He has since stopped doing that for the most part, but not I. Now I get up between 4 and 5 a.m., and I love it. I enjoy the silence, sipping my first Diet Coke of the morning in peace and making my breakfast before anybody gets up. I don’t like to be rushed at all.
And I don’t usually have a problem getting up; I normally get up before the alarm, bounce out of the bed and go. But the past couple of weeks it has been awful. I sleep through the alarm, I snooze until the last minute then I wake up and rush around and bark orders at the kids when really we’re not late, we’re just not on my meandering schedule. And I feel like each limb is 20 pounds. I don’t put on a cute outfit, I just reach for leggings and a sloppy top, which I told myself I wouldn’t do anymore.
I don’t know what gives. During the day I take one to two small naps, and my usual Adderall does little to help. I can’t even make it to 8 or 9 p.m. I know I probably need to call my doctor to get my thyroid or B12 checked — those have been culprits in the past — but I say I’m going to do it and don’t.
Sigh, I don’t even have the energy to finish this blog.
Sorry, friends. I hope y’all are well.
