During the workweek, Monday through Friday, 8am leaves me sitting at my desk in the office already. Having been there for an hour. Most likely I’m lurking on Facebook or conjuring a blog post. Rarely am I actually working for what I get paid for. It’s the sad truth. Most likely I’ll be needing to go to the bathroom and may even start dancing in my chair, hoping the pee will hold another 10 seconds so I can finish spying or writing. I’ll have already finished my breakfast by 8am, and most likely my first drink of the day.
On the weekends, 8am is generally much different, much more enjoyable and almost always involves the voice of a little Monchichi as she watches Yo Gabba Gabba in bed with us, telling me she’s “Hungry? Cheerios? Milk?” but doing so in a manner that makes it sound like a question. And when I repeat, “You’re hungry and want cheerios and milk?” she will answer, “Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!” with a big smile on her face followed by a giggle.
8 am is nothing during the week, but on the weekends, 8am is everything.