It's incredibly early in the morning as I write this. The sips of coffee I'm taking in between sentences are like small hits of liquid crack. There is a soft-focus fuzz around everything I see, while my eyes slowly adjust to being uncomfortably half-awake. My body aches. My breath is unspeakable. I am not a morning person.

However, I don't have to be.

I loathe to admit this, ever, in any context, because, by far, the vast majority of experiences specific to being a separated parent are frightening, lonely, painful, or some combination of the three. Occasionally though, there are small positives to this arrangement (that I would gladly trade, in a heartbeat, for more time with a daughter or a more "normal" life as a parent -- but still).

Sleep is one of those things.

Because I skip at least part of every workday to pick up Edan from daycare, I usually make up for it at the witching hour -- uninterrupted by late-night requests for glasses of water, additional stories, songs, and claims that sleep is a physical impossibility imposed upon children by domineering adults. Then I stumble through mornings (like this one), sipping coffee and trying desperately to smack my brain into readiness -- also uninterrupted by early morning sing-a-longs, second bowls of cereal, or morning cartoons.

And every once in awhile, when Edan spends a weekend at her mom's, I sleep in. Late. Like 9:30. Granted, this would've sounded like the crack of dawn when I was in college (and routinely slept until the afternoon), but these days it feels like hibernation. Ahh.

The flip side of all this is that, on days like yesterday -- when I tried to take Edan to Old Navy (because she "wanted") to try on some winter clothes, only to chase her through the men's section, pulling her out from under displays and shielding her from the icy glares of disgruntled high school-aged employees -- it's cool. We can just go someplace else -- because there's no agenda.

Unlike "normal" parents, I'm unburdened with (what I'm sure is) the difficult task of prioritizing your time -- so that you see your kids enough without getting fired, or letting your house descend into filthy, chaotic disrepair. Our time is rationed, meaning Edan and I are free to get so little accomplished during our afternoons together that simple, straightforward, life-sustaining necessities (like going to the grocery store, for instance) are novelties -- something different to break up our otherwise busy schedule of going to the park, riding our local mini-train, and exploring Austin's lovely botanical gardens.

Of course, there are days when I feel overworked, under-appreciated, exhausted and hopeless -- sure that the fragile construct of fatherhood will come crashing down around me. As I've discussed, at length, there are a myriad of disadvantages to this situation, so much so that, whenever I learn that a couple is having children, I want to grab them by the shoulders, shake them 'till they're nauseated, turn on some ominous music and scream in their faces: "ONLY DO THIS IF YOU WILL STAY TOGETHER. FOREVER. OR ELSE!"

'Cause don't get me wrong, the grass really is greener on the other side.

But these circumstances aren't going to change. There's no point in dreaming of a normal parent's daily routine, waking up the kids, making breakfast, and rushing out the door to school. Or getting frustrated about the endless negotiations surrounding every holiday and family vacation. There's no reason to imagine what life would be like if I didn't start work every morning, alone in empty house, slowing emerging into the land of the living.

And it's important to remember that. So when I wake up to the sound of Edan clamoring out of bed, calling "Daddy! Daddy!" ... I can really appreciate it.