Yesterday, I worked fiendishly on the day’s projects as a barrage of emails from people needing stuff arrived at my desk. At the end of the day I went and picked up a client’s photos for the website we’re building them, and then had a fusillade of emails back and forth with the crew trying to decide what to do now that — after waiting for their photos for two weeks — we saw that they weren’t actually going to work at all. I made dinner for the family, and then went off to the rehearsal of the choirlet. Home at 10:30, I answered more emails needing things done, attempted to grade papers, and at last gave up and went to bed around 11:00.

At 4:21 this morning, my husband’s alarm went off and I struggled out of bed to make his coffee.

Now, my point here is not that I mind making coffee. In fact, having to get up that early meant that I got all my grading done (and I have to admit that I had fallen behind with one of my classes).

My complaint is that my husband never warns me about these schedule changes. I think that, if I were the one who set the alarm for both of us, I would say, “Oh, by the way, we’ll be getting up at 4:21. You might want to get to bed early.”

It’s just an hour’s difference, so perhaps I’m being unreasonable, but 4:21 feels to me like the middle of the night. 5:21 is morning.

I have to drive up to the Next County and teach a three-hour class this morning, and then come back and finish up a website. And of course all the stuff that appears in my large collection of in-boxes. Sometime between now and then I hope to wake up.