... like until 8:30 p.m. Last night, I glanced at the clock and realized it was about 9:30 p.m. I'd been up since the alarm went off around 2:48 a.m., and Evelin — tired from being pregnant, sleep deprived because of teething demands, and generally needing more sleep than she's getting — had been in bed for at least an hour.
Earlier in the evening, I'd commented that being up at 8:00 p.m. nowadays was comparable to 10:30 p.m. or so in our pre-Celeste days. Evelin would be on her way to bed more often than not; I'd be finishing something up — the dishes, a TV show, something on the computer, a bottle of scotch, the newspaper, whatever — and then following her to sleep. Sometimes, however, I'd get distracted and find myself up for another hour or two, maybe even falling asleep on the couch for a while, before sheepishly heading up to bed.
Nowadays, shift everything ahead three to five hours and that's the routine. To find myself reading newspapers/blogs/whatever online at 9:15 p.m. elicits the same "oh shit I have to go to work in the morning" feeling that used to be reserved for finding myself awake at 1:30 a.m. ...
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