I’m a morning person.
I’m a good Morning Mom.
Morning Mom gets up around 5:30AM and spends a quiet hour reading or writing or praying or studying.
Morning Mom packs lunches and fills water bottles and signs planners then wakes children quietly and lovingly with backrubs and kisses on the temple.
Morning Mom helps find lost articles of clothing without a fuss and makes oatmeal or scrambled eggs or toasts English muffins and serves them with fruit.
Morning Mom carries on light conversation in the car and notices the sunrise over the mountains then sends kids off to school with well wishes and forehead kisses.
Morning Mom plays play-doh or builds couch cushion forts or teaches her five-year-old to read in between the breakfast dishes and a load of laundry or two.
I LOVE Morning Mom.
Morning Mom is patient and loving and kind and fun and efficient and sweet and exactly the kind of Mom I always hoped to be.
I wish I could be Morning Mom ALL DAY.
But then something happens.
The winds change.
The tides turn.
It’s lunchtime.
And lunchtime means it’s practically naptime which means it’s almost time to get the big kids from school which means it’s nearly dinnertime which means I have to drive kids around like a taxi driver to basketball or soccer practice or guitar practice and back again which means it’s basically bedtime.
And then I become Bedtime Mom.
