It is Friday night, nearing nine pm. And it's interesting to me that it feels completely reasonable--even normal--that I am slowing down, heading toward bed. As recently as last month, on Friday nights Brandon and I would look at each other and say: Well! What shall we do tonight? And we might have actually done something! We have nice friends, and an easy-going baby...it wasn't that hard to go out to dinner, or go visiting, or whatever. But now? We don't do that. Our plum is still easygoing, but he is no longer portable. In the evening, he goes tobed. In his bed.
I don't know how long this phase of parenting will last, but in it...Elliot doesn't really go out in the evening. And he doesn't usually sleep in past six; often he is up around five. Which means that we can't really go to bed too late, either, if we want to get any sort of rest. So we stay home. We have quiet, padding-around-the-house time after he goes to bed. And we go to bed ourselves not much later.
All of which is to say: Morning is the New Evening! When we get up at 5, we are really ready to start are day by eight or so. We lament that all sorts of places don't open until 10 am. We search for morning adventures! Last Saturday, we were up and out and the proud owners of a new membership to the art institute by 9:30 or so. We go grocery shopping at eight and host brunch at 10:30. We make french toast. We beat the traffic. We embark. We Greet the Day.