In little more than a month, Daylight Savings Time ends. Gain an hour? For me it only means I’ve already lost winter’s war and won a mere 3,600 seconds in which to try keeping up with our family’s night owls.

It’s not an issue when the sun shines, but as darkness swallows bright minutes at both ends of every day, it becomes a continuous battle. The instant I shuffle off to bed, or worse, fall asleep in the recliner, my night owls do whatever comes into their ingenious bird brains. I fight to stay conscious, fearing what the morning might reveal but too tired to prevent it.

This year the odds are even. One night owl daughter has flown the coop, and my early bird nestling is starting a new job which begins at 6:30 a.m. For some reason, I’m the one whooo often keeps the lights on last, though. Everything would be fine if I could sleep in, but I’ve failed at that for more than thirty years. My internal clock wakes me when it’s still dark. Insistently. Almost every morning. After that I’m mostly awake, even if I’m worn out from staying up with my night owls who, of course, are still in their cozy nests come morning. They don’t even lift a feather to keep up with me because they’re sleeping and I’m stumbling around cleaning up after their nightly revelry or doing whatever I left undone when sleep struck me down. I’d rather be sleeping too, but morning is when I have the most energy. Any hope I cherish of catching up is then or never.

I’ve long lobbied for separate beds or even better, separate bedrooms–but my snuggly, happily married owl can’t abide the thought. I attempt to convince him that life might be even more fun (fun is the language night owls screech) with a wife who’s not sleep deprived, but that would mean delayed gratification, something about which owls don’t give a hoot.

He does try. Whenever he adopts a schedule closer to mine, he ends up thinking and praying in the dark to the tune of my snoring while hours later to the tune of his, I try reaching for my Bible or computer. Over the years he’s become deafer during daylight but at night possesses the keen audio skills of, well, an owl. The man can hear my pillow shift. In response, he moves. Closer. Often he wraps a wing around me so I can’t budge, let alone escape.

We’re not alone in our struggle, simply heirs of generations-old personality traits. As far as we can figure, his was handed down from his grandmother and mother to him and two of our three daughters. I think I inherited my waking ways from my father, who got up even earlier than I do to start his day.

I would use coffee to assault my sleepiness, but I tend to pour a lot of chocolate syrup in it and don’t like regularly drinking so many calories. I’d rather eat them. Besides, it’s already hard enough to keep my teeth fairly white. My early bird daughter may have hit on a solution, however. She makes coffee candy. I’ve simplified her recipe by melting chocolate bark and sprinkling in whole organic coffee beans before spreading it thinly and cooling it. Nowadays I throw a handful into no-bake cookies. If I’m really desperate, I may even crunch the beans on their own. I try to limit my munching to twenty or so at a time, which keeps me up until a reasonable hour–or unreasonable, if I don’t consume them early enough in the day. Tiny bits do get stuck in my teeth, but I brush them out afterwards and no one is the wiser.

Coffee candy may be a key to greater marital bliss for this early bird and her night owl, at least temporarily. Until another solution presents itself, I think I’ll go chew my brew. It sure beats worms.