Are you more of a night or morning person?

I used to be a morning person. A true one—by choice, not by force. Back in the days before children, I would slip out of bed a little earlier than everyone else and enjoy the rarest treasure in all the lands: a quiet house. I’d make a cup of coffee, sit wherever I pleased, and watch whatever nonsense my soul required for proper functioning. Those were gentle, civilized mornings. Nothing glowed. Nothing hummed suspiciously. Nothing levitated.

Then I married a wizard.

At the time, I didn’t know he was a wizard. I met him at a cosplay contest, dressed as a completely normal fictional character from a TV show we both loved. Not a robe or staff in sight. Nothing about him suggested, “Yes, I can absolutely bend reality on a casual Thursday.” Honestly, if you had told me then that he came with magical children and temporary licorice-based home renovations, I would’ve assumed you were confusing him with someone from the anime section.

But here we are.

Our kids inherited their father’s talents, which means they greet sunrise the way most people greet a surprise package on their doorstep—full enthusiasm, zero context. Five in the morning? They tumble out of bed like tiny sorcerers fueled by pure cosmic joy. No warm-up period, no stretching, just instant magical readiness.

And initially, I thought, “It’s fine. I’ll just sleep in. Kids play quietly all the time in parenting books.” This was adorable of me.

The one time—the one single experimental time—I attempted to reclaim a sliver of morning sleep, I woke up to Clark (our family familiar, whose entire personality can be summarized as ‘sarcasm with housekeeping privileges’) standing beside my bed. He had that expression that says something between concern and sitcom timing.

He simply announced, “You might want to see the situation in the kids’ room.”

The “situation” turned out to be that they were hungry, and in a stroke of toddler logic combined with magical ability, had transformed their bed frames into licorice. Not figurative licorice. Not small pieces. Full-scale, structural, edible bed frames. They were sitting in the middle of their room with licorice strings hanging from their mouths like joyful little house elves on holiday.

By the time my husband came back and reversed the spell, the children were sticky, the beds were gone, and Clark was muttering something about needing hazard pay. We spent the weekend furniture shopping while silently pretending this was all very normal. Meanwhile, we had enough licorice to last a month. Possibly two. I am, unfortunately, now emotionally allergic to licorice.

So at this point, I am absolutely a night person. Night is when the house finally quiets down. Night is when the children stop transfiguring their belongings into candy. Night is when Clark stops narrating my life like it’s a sitcom. Night belongs to me.

It’s not the life I pictured when I used to enjoy those peaceful early hours…

but honestly? This version has better stories.