I’m sorry little lover of the sun.
When you were created God looked down and said “Let’s throw this mother a curve ball”. First he sent me a lover of the night, fueled by the moon, sparked by the stars, and inspired by the silence of the dark. A more perfect rhythmic match could not have been created for me, than that of your brother.
Then he sent you. You await the sun’s grand entrance every morning like a long lost friend. I believe you mourn his departure each night by the sounds of your troubled sleep. As he slowly lowers himself below the backyard tree line, you began to lose your sense of joy. I have considered moving us to a flattened desert wasteland to give you the absolute longest possible view of your precious sun. You gather your happiness from his rays and energize your body with his warmth.
Every night, after your life source has eased down and left us in darkness, you begin your transformation. Once night falls, you began to whine, cry, fight, rage. You become a hairless werewolf child no matter the phase of moon. While you cry yourself to sleep and await your precious sun, me and your brother come alive.
We dance around the kitchen. We become inspired to create art, tell stories, invent games. Magic comes to life once the dark falls and all things are possible. We soak up these fleeting moments of life, for after dark the most illogical of ideas become an attainable quest that must begin immediately. We stumble to bed when we have begun to run dry of inspiration. The soft blue glow though the windows tells us the hours of the inspired is over. We are eased into restful sleep and comfort in knowing we wasted no moonlight. The now brightening sky sedates us in a way no man made drug could imitate.
The sun creeps under the curtain, streams across the piles of laundry and toys, ascends the rungs of your crib waking you as quickly as it soothed us to sleep. You are up and my day must start. I am now a zombie, cursing the sun, cursing mornings, fumbling around for coffee, grumpy, resentful, drained. I am exhausted. I watch the clock for nap time counting minutes like a prisoner counting down the days of his sentence.
We repeat this every day. You awake full of joy; your brother and I shoot you daggers from red burning eyes. You are ready to play games, eat, function, live. We are missing our sun soaked bed. I tell you I’ll go to bed with you tonight, but I lie. I may try to follow your routine, but I lie awake in the dark while the moon continues to feed my mind lists of projects, chores, ideas, and questions until once again, the sun is rising.
I am sorry. I am sorry I will never know the joy of a good nights rest. I am sorry I will never awake and dive straight into games with you. I am sorry you are alone in the elation that is sunrise. I am sorry I can not share in this joy with you. I am sorry you seem to miss all the excitement that takes place when the rest of the world is sleeping. I am sorry.
3-6pm…. That I can handle. Let’s make the most of it tomorrow.