I used to be a night owl.
I started in elementary school. By high school, I was an old hand at staying up late to finish homework. In college, I graduated to “all-nighters,” socializing over pizza or donuts until my friends went to bed, and only then cracking the books. That is why my “local profile” for a writing assignment was of the only person I could find – the night-shift waitress at the local donut shop.
One day, a roommate asked me to teach her how to stay up all night.
“First,” I said, “we need to go out for donuts and coffee.”
“Let’s skip that part,” she said. “You know I’m on a diet.”
“All right, but you won’t get the full effect.”
Next, I said she should get comfortable and start working. I kicked off my shoes and turned on the light over the desk. My roommate disappeared into the bedroom, emerging a few minutes later in nightgown and slippers.
“Not THAT comfortable, or you’ll fall asleep before midnight!” Sure enough, by 10:30 p.m. she started yawning, and at 11 she went to bed. What could I do? Even the best teacher requires a minimum of talent in her student.
Over the next four years, I did some of my best work between midnight and dawn. Of course, that’s when I did my only work. And while you might think that the madness would stop when I graduated from college and found a job, it turned out that the job I found was in television, in The City That Never Sleeps.
I met a lot of other night owls, and married one of them. We had an evening wedding – of course.
When our first-born arrived, I decided to stay home with him, only to discover a whole new world of sleep deprivation. Day and night became one continuous fog, as time ceased to matter at all. Things only worsened three years later, when a second baby arrived.
The fog cleared long enough for me to enroll the three-year-old in nursery school. And through luck, or genetics, it turned out that our first-born was a night-owl, himself.
So, naturally, I chose the afternoon session. That way, we could roll out of bed with just enough time to pull on some clothes and show up at the nursery school door
My first parent-teacher conference was awkward. The teacher looked at me strangely, as she explained that my son was doing well, “considering.”
“Considering what?” I asked.
“Considering that he seems quite hungry, by snack time. Is there anything going on at home that you’d like to tell us?”
I had no idea what she was driving at. “Just that it’s hard getting out the door every day. Why do you ask?”
She still had that look on her face.
“The way he watches the other kids’ plates at snack time – surely it isn’t his first meal of the day?”
Lamely, I tried to explain that we only woke up 20 minutes before school. She made some suggestions; the PBJ sandwich made with toaster waffles is still a family staple. I didn’t realize till years later that I had probably narrowly escaped being reported to some kind of authorities.
Our Land Without Time came to an end at the school bus stop. The district’s full-day kindergarten meant we needed to be there by 8 a.m. – a shift of at least four time-zones earlier. Four-and-a-quarter, actually, because the entire district was moving up its day by 15 minutes.
My friends called to commiserate: “Judy! How will you ever manage?” and, “I hope that those 15 minutes aren’t the last straw for you!” But I wasn’t fazed. When you’re flying across the country 3 or 4 time-zones, what are another 15 minutes? They’re lost in the wash.
So, we made the extreme shift to being early birds. Now, almost 15 years later, I still drag myself out of bed in order to see that my high-school boy grabs something edible on his way off to school.
There’s just one problem. Ever since that first day at the bus stop, I’ve been a wreck in the evenings. I can’t write, or even think coherently, past dinner, and have even gone to bed in mid-episode of Castle.
I am no longer a competent night owl, but I’ve never become an early bird, either. I’m only functional between 11 am and noon. Like a candle, I’ve been ruined at both ends.
It’s for the birds.
