Bed in Summer

In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet
Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?
–Robert Louis Stevenson

And since southern Indiana is now under the thumb of Daylight Savings Time, I’m sure our little kids would sympathize completely.

Mine wouldn’t have, because I let them stay up till all hours in the summer, but normal parents (like mine, whose strict insistance on bedtime helped make me hate bedtime) make their little kids go to bed at a reasonable (??) hour. And now, with this stupid time thing, it’s still light. Who can do that, without protest?

Did I say I let my kids stay up till all hours during vacation? Heck, sometimes I woke them up at four a.m. and took them outside to show them a planet or a meteor shower.

You don’t have to tell me I’m weird. I know. Sigh. But somehow, in spite of me, my kids turned out cool. Funky and odd and out-of-the-box and cool. I wouldn’t have them any other way.

And none of us like the morning; we’re all vampires. Must be genetics.

Or conditioning.

We don’t put milk or sugar in our cereal, either. And we all eat raw lemons.

It’s not my fault. I’m normal. Oh wait, you already know I’m not, yikes.

Okay then. Blame it on the Bossa Nova, with its magic spell. Or blame it on Rio. Blame it on the Tetons. Blame it on the Stones. Blame it on the Boogie. Blame it on the mistletoe. Blame it on the love of rock and roll. Blame it on the sun. Blame it on the moon. Blame it on the weatherman. Blame it on the rain. Blame it on my youth. Blame it on Cain. Blame it on Mame. Blame it on Mexico. Blame it on the roofies. Blame it on baseball. Blame it on your heart. Blame it on my heart. Blame it on the heat. Blame it on a sad song. Blame it on the night. Blame it on da bay. Blame it on the dog. Blame it on bad luck. Blame it on economics. Blame it on my wild heart. Blame it on the black star. (Do you recognize the poems songs?)

I know there are others to blame but my mind has gone blank.

And I’ve forgotten why I’m blaming things.

Oh yes, my kids are weird.

Well, it’s not MY fault. I was like the Beav’s mom when they were growing up. Yes, I mopped the floor wearing dresses and pearls.

Hahahahaha, gotcha. I hardly ever mopped.

My kids are weird because of their FATHER’S family.