Las Vegas, I wish to inform you, is not an early-morning kind of town. Usually, if you’re up at 7 a.m. in Sin City, it’s because you were also up at 6 a.m., 5 a.m., 4 a.m., and all the a.m.’s stretching back to the post-meridianal hour when you first rose from your damp-sheeted hotel bed, head pounding, wondering where you were, who those people were lying next to you, and what that burro was doing in the shower stall.
Anyway, in the spirit of Las Vegas, I woke up today at 9:29 a.m.
If you’re a non-parent and have somehow stumbled on to this site by googling “japanese dad helps his daughter study porn,” this will not amaze you. But if you have children under the age of, what, 9, maybe?, you’ll understand: You are a morning person whether you wanted to become one or not.
That, at least, was what happened to me. For most of my life, I slept late, as late as I possible could. In college, I arranged my class schedule so that I’d never have to learn anything before 11, and my first real job out of college was as a copy editor at the Viet Nam News (which is, incidentally, where I first worked with Theodore); I didn’t have to show up till 2 p.m. Future jobs had me in by 10, 10:30, and then I went freelance, ensuring I’d never, ever have to rise with the sun.
Then, two years ago, along came Sasha. All of a sudden, I was up each day at 6. Sometimes 6:30, sometimes 5:30, but always long before I expected. Did you know that there exists a time period before NPR’s “Morning Edition” comes on? I didn’t.
Every day, I expected to fail to get up. I couldn’t imagine that my new routine would stick, especially when I went off on one of my work trips to Tangier or Chongqing or wherever. But it did, and while I wouldn’t exactly call myself a morning person now—all I do in the first couple hours of the day is noodle around on the Internet and drink coffee—I like the feeling of being up at a decent hour. And, thank goodness, Sasha has relented a bit: She wakes up around 7, 7:15, so the morning routine doesn’t feel too onerous.
Except that now, here I am in Vegas, awake and alert when everyone interesting is groggy and headed for a hangover. What’s worse, I’m pooped by midnight, which is when things just start getting fun (or so I’ve heard). I’ll adapt, I’m sure, but it’s still a weird situation to be in.
Anyway, file this under Reasons Not to Have Children: Because one day you might need to enjoy yourself, but you’ll be too tired to.