I used to hate Daylight Savings Time. By which I mean, I used to hate Daylight Savings Time as a parent. Before kids, who cared about an hour more or less in a given night? But AK, it was just one more thing to screw up the scant amount of sleep we didn't get in the first place. It was an hour gone that we could've used, or, worse, that so-called "extra" hour that our childless peers spent having sex or going for an energizing, early-morning run, or — God forbid — sleeping in. Asshats.
But now, in a house where, most of the time, everyone sleeps just fine, my hatred of the timeshift is fading.
Last night was a mediocre night, by the way: Rowan up once and Isaac twice, me already sleepless for much of the night, my brain working overtime on All the Tiny Little Details. I realize how much this blog used to be about sleep deprivation, sleep strategization, and how that phase of my life has more or less disappeared. After a bad night, I remember that sluggish, hung-over feeling and how it used to feel like that all the time, how rare it is now, and it feels almost good, a reminder of how far we’ve come.
(If Rachel reads this post, she’s going to point out — rightly — that the kids wake up plenty; it’s just that I manage to sleep through most of their wakings while she springs out of bed and snuggles. And I thank her for that. I really do.)
So, Daylight Savings Time. Like the Halloween candy free-for-all, it ends today. I won't be sad to see either of them go, but neither has scarred my soul this year, and for that I am grateful.