Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (otherwise known as the Time Before Tori), I sort of enjoyed the arrival of Daylight Savings Time.
It meant that summer was on its way, full of bright evening hours that could be spent swimming, or gardening, or drinking a bottle of wine on the patio.
That was before. These days? I hate the damn thing.
Preschoolers can’t tell time. And even if they could, they wouldn’t care what the clock said. Why? Because they rely on their bodies to tell them what to do. Their body clocks know when it’s dinner time, when it’s bedtime and when it’s time to get up.
So when we arbitrarily set the clock ahead an hour? They’re unimpressed, to say the least.
Right now, my kid is upstairs screaming for me. I have her door shut, because if I didn’t she’d be down here in my lap. In her mind, it’s only 8:3o. We should be just finishing up her stories, not ignoring her pleas.
This will last until 10 o’clock. At least.
Meanwhile, my body clock is also thrown off. I am tired, grumpy and desperately in need of a nap.
Throw in a raging case of the stomach flu (the kind that leaves you writhing on the bed wishing for death), and you have a recipe for disaster.
That my friends, is why I haven’t written anything this week. And why I don’t have anything brilliant to say right now.
In fact, you know what I want to do? I want to scream for my mommy, let her take over and go hide under the covers for a while.
Of course, she hates Daylight Savings Time too. So she’s probably just as grumpy as I am. But she would do it if she could, I’m sure.
Why? Because that’s what mommies do.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go get my kid before she bashes a hole through the door with her head.