Oh sure, there's the Canadian thing. We are hockey and all that. The Canada vs. US game on Friday had been worth the watch, and the women's gold medal game had been even more worth it the day before (a very Canadian "sorry" to you on both counts, America). Neither of those games, however, involved getting up far too early in the morning.
If you'd asked me if I was going to wake up at 4 a.m. to watch hockey during the last Olympics, I'd have laughed and laughed and laughed. And then laughed some more when I woke up nice and refreshed at a reasonable time the next morning. And then probably not have even watched the rebroadcast. Just the score, thanks, that's good enough for me. Oh, Canada beat the US and got the gold medal? Excellent. Go Canada.
So it wasn't dedication to the sport that had me yawning on the couch at 4:00 in the morning on Sunday. All of the hockey enthusiasm in this house may get contagious at times, but not that contagious.
No, I was up for this:
I was up for the sheer memory of it. For opening the kids' bedroom door and finding the boy already awake in his excitement. For trying to wake up the younger, as per his request, only to have him refuse in his sleep and then admonish me the next morning for not getting him up. I was up for honey toast between the first two periods. I was up for snuggling together on the couch under blankets and sweatshirts and fuzzy warm pajama pants. I was up because it speaks my husband's love language when I show interest in his passions. I was up for the boy's giggles and that bright light in his eyes that I love so much. I was up for very un-Februaryish snow falling in the darkness outside.
I wasn't up for the game. I was up for another family memory to add to our story.