My Favorite Day of the Year
It’s better than any Halloween treat. More exciting than Fourth of July fireworks. It’s like Christmas without all of the shopping, wrapping, baking, decorating and obligatory parties. It is the perfect gift of a day for an exhausted and overwhelmed mother like me.
It’s the end of Daylight Saving Time.
Although it has no official anthem, I find myself humming “It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” weeks before its arrival. I decorate by fluffing my pillows and wearing footed pajamas. My children and I reverse roles. They send me to bed on Saturday night with a wink and a warning that the clocks won’t turn back if I’m awake to watch it. I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend to sleep as I listen for tell-tale signs like hooves on the roof or incessant clock-winding.
If I were to personify this day it would be with a benevolent Mother Nature character. She is warm and nurturing, and every autumn, she turns our clocks back while she tucks us in snugly. She tandems with Mr. Sandman and together, they grant the wish most uttered amongst worn-out folks like myself: “Just one more hour of sleep … PLEASE!” as we hurl the alarm clocks and baby monitors across the room.
The Daylight Saving Fairy must be the patron saint of parents or something. Because it doesn’t occur at 11 a.m. when you could get an extra hour of time at work or on the treadmill. It doesn’t commence at 3 in the afternoon for an extra hour of carline. No, we are given our additional hour at drowsy 2 a.m., when you are either sleeping, or doing something that would require an added hour to post bail. Blessedly, all dry cleaners, Toys R Us stores and restaurants with crayons and paper placements are closed.
And please do not rain on my Easter parade and give me some perfectly reasonable explanation that Daylight Saving wasn’t even practiced until World War I, and even then it wasn’t really uniform until the mid ‘70’s when Congress passed a law blah blah blah. Don’t start yammering to me about energy issues. Because it’s the same as my Chicken Piccata; I’d rather not know where it comes from, just that it goes nicely on a bed of fettuccine. Or in this case, on a bed of high thread count Egyptian cotton.
This holiday requires no phone calls, no mailing of cards or good wishes. It’s the one day of the year that living on borrowed time is a good thing.
So when I awake on Sunday morning to that beautiful, innocent joy of knowing that it is really 7 a.m. instead of 8 and rolling back over wrapping up tightly in my blanket, I’ll not know for a blessed moment if it is just another day in October or Christmas morning.
But for my worn-out self, it’ll be a day of Thanksgiving.