Monday, March 11, 2013

Stupid Daylight Savings Time

Daylight Savings Time.  How can one little hour throw my life into such a tailspin? 

First, I must explain.  I’m chronically and annoyingly early for everything.  My children have learned that arriving ten minutes before we are supposed to is the norm, mostly because being late makes me crazy.  They sigh, they wait, and they accept it.  But yesterday, the first awful Sunday of DST, I was running late for everything. 

I woke up feeling foolishly refreshed since I thought I’d slept until 8 (and I never, never, ever am able to sleep until 8).  I decided to bake, imagining the joy on my children’s faces when they awoke to the tantalizing scent of banana muffins.  My youngest was delighted about the muffins, but worried about me.  He looked at the clock and said, “Don’t you have to take me to Rock Academy?”  Somehow it went from being 8am to noon in an hour.  I threw on some sweats, yelled for my son to get in the car, and sped off to Rock Academy.  We arrived exactly on time – a first for me. 

After dropping off Rocker Child, I returned to my previously mellow state.  I felt like I had all the time in the world, until I remembered I was supposed to be at a tennis class for rusty (aka old) players at 2.  I couldn’t understand how the time changed from 12:30 to 1:30 in seven minutes.  I rushed home, asked my husband to drive child number two (aka Tennis Boy) to his lessons, and reminded him to also pick up the little girl in our carpool (aka the Girl My Husband Always Forgets to Pick Up).  I grabbed my racquet and headed off to tennis, arriving exactly on time. Very strange.

I felt vaguely unsettled all day, in spite of not actually being late for anything, which led to a restless night’s sleep.  It was that way for everyone in my family.  My husband couldn’t fall asleep.  Tennis Boy visited us several times to say goodnight.  Once, he came after we’d turned the lights off and scared the crap out of me.  When I woke up at 6am, which was actually a cleverly disguised 5am, Rocker Child was already in my room.  “I didn’t sleep all night,” he wailed.  “Yes, you did,” I said.  “I checked on you.  You were sleeping.”  “Nooo,” he said as he threw himself face down on my bed.  “I was pretending.” 

It appears, after a bleary look at Facebook this morning that everyone was in the same boat.  How can one little hour so disrupt the entire space time continuum?  Yesterday went faster, and last night went slower.  People were posting at all hours.  They were up at 4am cleaning.  They were watching reruns of really bad sitcoms.  Why couldn’t we sleep?

I understand the concept of DST, but is it really necessary?  As Rocker Child munched on his breakfast of olive and garlic focaccia this morning (we were out of banana muffins, he really likes focaccia, and I was too groggy to protest), he looked at me over his glasses and muttered, “Stupid farmers.” 
I don’t blame the farmers, and I like the time change in the fall.  I just hate it in the spring.  But I was too tired to argue.  I just poured another cup of coffee, grabbed a bite of his focaccia, and yawned.  “Stupid Daylight Savings Time."

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