Slowly but surely, the holiday weight is sloughing off. It's grumbling in the process (and so am I), but that pesky padding is thinning out. (Ah....thank you, Treadmill.)
It's a hate-love relationship with my treadmill right now. I really, really, really hate to start working out, and I'm not usually enthusiastic until the last ten minutes or so (because I'm about to be done), but good heavens don't I love the feeling of having worked out.
I did get in four workouts last week--my default goal. And I'm proud of myself, don't get me wrong. But I'm still not doing that other thing too consistently.....
That other thing.
.........eugh. I hate it. I hate, hate, hate it. Lara, I feel your pain; we are nocturnally-minded sisters or something.
First, it's the dead silence of the house. My alarm pierces the deep, joyous, solid satisfaction of my sleep; it demands attention. Then if I'm being good, I roll onto my back--because I WON'T fall asleep on my back unless I've currently given birth and am nursing and exhausted beyond normalcy--and I try to open my eyes, hearing nothing but the comfortable (STILL SLEEPING) breathing of Phill next to me, the weird mutterings of our on-the-outs computer in the livingroom (it groans, I'm telling you), and the pressing silence of a still-sleeping household. Shouldn't I still be sleeping, too? (that's where the self-pity really kicks in and I maybe cry a little bit with my eyes still closed)
But if I don't wake up when the time is ripe, here's what happens: Reed comes into my room, pats my face, and says sweetly (and a little bit nervously, as the poor boy has discovered my alternate personality in the mornings), "Mama, we're awake. And Savvy is too. And I would like some cereal."
Which doesn't make me feel like I'm doing very well at this Doing My Best thing. (And oh, how that Doing My Best thing matters with regard to motherhood. Are you as worn out as I am?)
When I dress down the problem, dress it down to bare bones, it comes to this: It hurts. Waking up early (for me) hurts. But too bad. I need to do it anyway.
There's the issue. I need to do it. I don't HAVE to. But I NEED to. Why is it so much easier to do what I have to do, rather than make the difficult choices day in and day out?
No one's forcing me out of bed. If I beg sadly enough, Phill will kindly cover me with the blanket and say, "It's okay. Go back to sleep." And my kids aren't physically dragging me out of the bed. But I need to get out of bed early, because if I don't, my children wander, aimless, oddly-dressed and probably hungry.
So, my (already-mentioned) confession: I am terrible at getting out of bed before my children practically drag me out of bed. And I'm going to do better, as in 7:30.
I really can't wait for it to be lighter outside in the mornings.