Well, early for me.

For the longest time, you couldn’t get me out of bed before 10:00 on the weekends. Even when the kids were babies, I’d fall out of bed, slap them on a breast, fall back into bed.

But over the last few years, I’ve noticed that I’m up by 7:00 at least one weekend morning. And this is even after late nights of boozing it up and acting like fools. (which I did not do last night. Tonight has strong possibilities, though.)

My grandma lived with us for 9 years and she was always up at the ass-crack of dawn. Sometimes she’d beat dawn to the punch, waking around 4, drinking her Sanka and reading the paper. Then as soon as dawn would decide to finally bring her lazy ass on over the horizon, my Mema would hit the garden. She would work out there until about 7, come inside, shower, and fix us breakfast.

What a woman.

I don’t profess to be anything like my Mema. Early is a relative term for me, as I damn near refuse to get out of bed on the weekends pre-light. I’ll probably never be one of those old people who stop fighting the desire to lay in bed and wallow in my own slothlike nature.

But I can see the appeal of early mornings. For just a brief moment it was quiet. Silent even. Unfortunately, the silence was not long lived. Now, as I listen to my lovely boys scream endearments such as “Shut up Ray-tard!” “Bite me, fat head!” I suddenly realize that the earlier I rise, the longer the silence will be.

Of course, I could pull out the handy-dandy duct tape and force the silence…

For me to get up at 4:00 a.m., I would have to go to bed at 8:00 p.m.

Yeah, like that’ll ever happen.