Now I understand why Sylvia Plath got up at 4:30 every day to work on her Ariel poems by candlelight.
Right now, it's 2:00 in the afternoon. My husband is used-book shopping at the local charity thrift store, my mom is reading a book, and both of my children are napping. I have a load of laundry spinning down and a Cornish pasty warming up in the toaster oven. This would be an optimal time to write a Work of Staggering Genius and Blinding Insight. However, what I really want to do is put my face in a pillow and leave it there for about a week. I'm drinking nearly a pot of coffee a day and I can still fall asleep in a blink.
I have little enough time for myself during the day. At night I'm wiped out. Getting up early - which used to come to me as naturally as photosynthesis - will likely become my sole source of "me time" of any use.
Just proving my point... It's now 7:30 the following morning, and I'm getting back to this post. The coffee is almost ready. The sun is above the ocean and behind some clouds.
I adore my family, but I also require periodic peace and solitude. I'm not out to write volumes of brilliance, I just want to reassure myself that I have a personality beyond "Mommy" and "Colleague". I couldn't do this every day of the week for the rest of my life, or at least not getting up at 4:30. Hey, much respect to the late Mrs. Hughes, but no thank you. The Ariel collection is extraordinary, but the net result left something to be desired.
My mother is awake. Time for me to get some coffee and help her unload the dishwasher. And I am going to need a nap if I'm going to make it through Oscar night.