You’d think it would be silent this early in the morning but it’s not. As I sit in bed playing with my birthday toy, a new Samsung tablet, the house is alive. The central heating burbles, whining occasionally as if struggling to wake up to its task. The clock on the wall that we moved from the nursery tick tocks quietly, almost apologetically. Little Man and OH snore competitively, the former’s snuffles drowned out until he almost snorts himself awake. I freeze momentarily.
It’s delicious, this time. This personal time. So good I can almost taste it. I should probably be sleeping but with only an hour until OH gets up it seems pointless. Nothing worse than being woken up just as you enter deep sleep. Like someone showing you heaven and slamming the door in your face.
Besides I’ve always liked the early morning hours. Perhaps its the promise of a day not yet begun, full of hope and potential, or time stolen from the night. It’s always been my time. Time for me, time to write, before the day gets in the way.
Another snort, a fidget, a reminder that my time is short. It’s been a better night and I’m grateful, my eyes less itchy, my brain less wooly, my temper in check. I catch myself wondering what Curly Girl should wear to her friend’s birthday party today realise the day is creeping in, stealing into my thoughts. Not yet, not yet.