It's early. All is quiet. Everyone is still sleeping soundly.
Way back, a million years ago, before Miles was born and my life became a crazy carnival ride, I used to be a morning person. From a very young age, I remember popping out of bed with the rising of the sun, tiptoeing through the silent hallway, and reveling in the blissful serenity of the morning. Something about the peace of those hours drew me out of bed, even if I'd had little sleep.
And then Miles was born. And that pull, that desire to jump out of bed and greet the day, was replaced by an incessant exhaustion. Life overwhelmed me to the point that all I wanted to do was lay in bed, covers tucked safely under my chin, and sleep. Given the opportunity, I would have slept for days. I had lost the desire to get out of bed at all. When Miles would begin to fuss, I would reluctantly drag my butt out of bed, staring longingly at my pillow, and make myself face the day.
At the time, I didn't even realize what was going on. I told myself that I was just tired. That I wasn't getting enough sleep. I somehow managed to ignore the fact that I could sleep for twelve hours and still not feel refreshed. I had lost a small part of me, and I didn't even know it.
Yesterday morning - and today, I awoke at 6:30, long before my alarm was set to go off. I lay there, in the quiet of the morning, and suddenly knew that I could not stay in bed. I silently got up, and tiptoed down the stairs, to enjoy the solitude of the morning. I sipped on coffee, and read my book, and felt at peace with the world.
I had forgotten how much I love this.