In my experience, one of the harshest lessons of getting older has always been a persistently growing reluctance to get out of bed in the morning. When I was younger, I always thought there was a point where I would just adapt (or at least resign myself to the fact that I was never going to feel fully rested again). Not only did this never happen — my distaste for morning has only continued to become more pronounced with every passing year.
What I don’t remember is exactly when this trend started for me. I had always assumed there must’ve been some point in my life where mornings were met with vigor and excitement (or at the very least indifference). After observing Miles this week, I’m not so sure.
We’ve had to work hard to get Miles up every morning this week — even following nights where his sleep wasn’t interrupted by teething or general fretfulness. Each morning, we’ve been met with grumbling, attempts to shrug us off, and subconscious recoils as he’s tried to avoid our hands by curling up in a corner of his bed. It’s taken most of our commute to daycare for him to fully “wake up.” And every morning, my words to him have been the same — “You think it’s tough waking up NOW…”