I want to talk about an unmitigated horror that occurred this week that has legions of decent folks worried about the way the world is changing and what that might mean for our children.
It’s an epic shift that originated in the 19th century but odiously gained mainstream appeal on the eve of the First World War in the countries of Germany and Austria. And this week it reared its ugly head in a way that I couldn’t have imagined just a few short months ago.
I’m talking, of course, about Daylight Savings Time.
This week’s events are proof that it’s time for us to stop playing time lords – it’s messing with our internal clocks, and that messes with our heads.
Let me show you how devastating it can be. In the months leading up to the time shift my family had finally figured out the sleep patterns of our two boys, age three and six, well enough to get them to stay in bed until 6:30 a.m. most days. It was a modest goal and tough battle, but we were winning it.
The time shifted last Sunday and the first two days were OK – if you consider 5:15 a.m. wake-up calls from confused little children OK – but it all fell completely apart on Tuesday, Nov. 8, 2016. What a horrible day it was for our family, and I’m sure there are others around the world who had similar experiences. Here’s how the morning went down for us, in real time:
5:17 a.m.: My older son, who has been sick and needs his sleep, is wide awake. He comes into the master bedroom and slides into my bed, trying to get back to sleep through a series of body position adjustments that all end with him kicking me in the groin. It’s worth it, though, if we can stay quiet enough to let my younger son sleep a little longer.
5:28 a.m.: Seriously, why is it so hard for young children to stay still for one damn second? He’s spinning and kicking harder than America being dragged back into the Dark Ages. Ouch.
5:32 a.m.: Ouch!
5:45 a.m.: The young son is up, wide awake. The older son bounds out of bed to greet him and they dump out a big box of Lego. The young one pokes his head into my room, smiles, and slowly closes the door. ‘Good. Raise yourselves, children,’ I think to myself, as I try to find five more minutes of sleep.
5:46 a.m.: I hear my older son making guns with the Lego. The young one repeats the family mantra that we don’t play with guns. Good boy. The older one responds by listing all the types of guns he knows and how they can kill you. I get up and calmly, like the Ghandi-esque father that I am, have a heart-to-heart with my older son about guns. Then I make breakfast.
6:06 a.m.: How can kids be so loud! The boys know they are supposed to be quiet because there are other humans living nearby, yet they are whining louder than Donald Trump after just missing the cut-off for McDonald’s breakfast. (“This drive-thru is rigged. Egg McMuffins used to be so great, now I can’t even order them my favourite way – whites only. Sad!”)
6:09 a.m.: Back making breakfast, and my younger son runs into the kitchen yelling that his brother is trying to bite him. That can’t be, I say, sending him back – your brother knows we don’t bite.
6:10 a.m.: My son runs back into the kitchen, quickly followed by his older brother who is indeed biting at him while chanting blood. Blood! BLOOD! And where the hell did he get vampire teeth?! I have a heart-to-heart with him about being a good brother, and the dangers of becoming living dead.
6:14 p.m.: My older son is yelling. “Where’s breakfast? I’m starving!” I explain that it’s not even wake-up time yet, we should all actually still be asleep. Confusion mixes with rage. “But you changed the time!” he screams. “You changed the time!” I have no rebuttal.
6:30 a.m. My fit and fabulous wife arrives home from an early morning trip to the gym. The boys are playing some sort of head-smashing game instead of sleeping or getting ready for school, while I exhaustedly cower in the kitchen under the guise of still making breakfast. She shoots me a “WTF” look. I have no rebuttal.
6:42 a.m.: My younger son, unhappy with the colour of his bunny-shaped vitamin, is having an epic meltdown.
6:46 a.m.: Meltdown still going. He attacks the bunny with a spoon.
6:48 a.m.: Meltdown still going.
6:53 a.m.: Still going. He’s grappling my wife, and his older brother comes to his defence with a blindside attack. I pull the older one aside for a heart-to-heart blah blah blah….
6:57 a.m.: Meltdown. Still. Going. Did I mention it’s still not even 7 effing a.m. yet!? This is how one of the longest and worst days of my life commenced.
Do you see now what kind of havoc this can wreak? What if something even greater than breakfast had been at stake on that fateful Tuesday in early November? What if, say, the most powerful nation in the world was in the process of choosing a leader? Shouldn’t they all be functioning on full brain power?
Can’t we play time lords just one last time, go back a week and eliminate daylight time for good? Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a do-over for this whole horrible week?
Let’s do it! Let’s make everything great again.
What are your thoughts? Send us a letter via email by clicking here or post a comment below.
