Last Sunday, I got up slowly, got myself dressed, and got Sabrina in her costume for Sunday school (special dress as a saint day). The boys were doing their business, and I was taking out some cereal bars to stave off kid hunger until breakfast after church. I glanced at the cable box under the TV and wondered, hmm, how come it still says 8:31 when it should have reset itself overnight to an hour earlier? And the a stab of dread made my blood run cold. I flew over to the calendar and stared, but the little block for October 28 didn't say what I expected it to say. That was actually on November 4.
Yup, I fell back to standard time a week early.
I totally freaked, threw Sabrina in the car and raced her to Sunday school, for which she was now half an hour late. I'd also missed my volunteer shift watching kids that morning. I felt like a chump.
I can't even blame coming back from vacation the previous day. I was actually quite sure this was the transition day well before we even left. I smugly congratulated myself for planning the trip so we'd come back to an extra hour of sleep. See: chump.
Well, Sabrina didn't miss much, my shift got covered, we still got our pancake breakfast, and we just went to a later Mass. But the self-stigma of stupidity still stings.
Did I say self? That's not quite the case when your mother calls and reminds you several times to change your clocks, giggling every time.
Anyway, extra hour or no, I hate the early darkness and will be stewing about it until March. When, undoubtedly, I will be reminded to spring forward about eleventy million times.
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