The Daylight Savings Grumpster

The classroom is filled with hectic activity: preschoolers carting toys back to storage areas, teachers sweeping away the lunchtime refuse, parents plucking up retrieved backpacks. Mia is filling a tiny dump truck with even tinier plastic zoo animals. She spies me from the corner of her eye, and begins to sulk; she doesn't want to go.

She isn't done playing.

She refuses to pick up her toys.

She throws herself down on the crumb-scattered floor, surprising her teacher, who's never seen this disobedient side of Mia before.

The Daylight Savings Grumpster has struck again.



The afternoon bedroom is cool and inviting: Blankets open their soft arms, ready to accept my baby into their sleepy embrace. A stack of stories sits patiently, waiting to be read to a cuddly toddler. But, day-weary Lauren has other ideas. She hot-foots it around me and into other, less darkened rooms; she screams her defiance.

She isn't done playing.

She refuses to be calmed.

She throws her indignant body down on mommy and daddy's floor, frustrating the mother who is day-weary herself.

The Daylight Savings Grumpster has struck again.



The house is finally quiet: worn out children are sleeping, a filled dishwasher has completed its noisy cycle, and a relaxed mama is breathing slowly again after a few days of battle-filled moments. She sits comfortably on a cushy sofa, feet up, head back, entranced with a novel that has transported her to another place. She is shocked out of her reverie by a piercing wail, followed by a grumpy moan: the naps are over. They've only just begun! she thinks. She doesn't want them to be awake yet.

She isn't done resting.

She refuses to let go of the solitude.

She throws her book down in a childish fit of pique, embarrassing herself for being so selfish, but still not snapping out of her disappointment in a naptime cut short.

The Daylight Savings Grumpster has struck again.