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Today, gentle friends and readers, I’d like to discuss the convergence of the end of daylight saving time with the beginning of the holiday season and how it’s become TOO FREAKING MUCH FOR ME TO BEAR!

Thank you in advance for indulging me.

It started, innocently enough, last Saturday night on Halloween.

My daughter, gaily disguised as a Twister game (vinyl playing board as poncho; spinner as festive chapeaux), bounded out the door at 10 p.m., saying, “We get an extra hour at the bars because they set the clocks back tonight. Yeooooow!”

Did she just howl at the moon, I wondered.

I yelled, “Don’t be too late, and take a taxi home if you need to,” uttered a silent prayer for her (and the local police force), and made my way to the couch where my husband sat munching a mini Snickers bar.

“Extra hour of sleep tomorrow,” I said, reaching for the remote. “Wanna watch a horror movie? There’s a bunch On Demand. How can you eat all that chocolate and still expect to sleep?”

Fifteen minutes later, he was snoring a blue streak, and I was frozen in fear, transfixed by “Rosemary’s Baby.” Another two hours and I shuffled off to bed, wondering how late my daughter would roll in, and whether I would sleep more soundly if my boomerang child was the son of Satan. (Seriously, I’m sure I’d worry a little, but he’d go ahead and do his thing, no matter what I said. It might be oddly liberating. I’m just sayin’.)

The next morning, I woke to sunlight, chirping birds and barking dogs. It was 7 a.m. (or was it 6?). I hadn’t gotten an extra hour of sleep. Heck, I was at net minus 2! I don’t set the alarm on Sundays, but my biological clock is apparently programmed to go off, regardless of time change or devil incarnate baby movies.

I spent the next 30 minutes wandering around the house, adjusting timepieces to standard time — clocks on the oven, microwave, kitchen radio, a watch I never wear, the old analog clock in the dining room, the clock on my dashboard.

While my family slumbered away their extra “hour” (which, in my daughter’s case, turned into five) I was a whirlwind of productivity.

I swept, I sponged, I spot-cleaned. I Swiffered, I Shammy’ed, I Shouted out stains.

I found the perfect place to hide the leftover Halloween candy (underwear drawer — brilliant!) and replaced my summer decor with the accouterments of fall. I even planned my Thanksgiving menu down to the sweet olive jam with ginger I’d serve on the side.

Ah, Thanksgiving, I thought. My favorite time of year.

By noon, I was exhausted. My daughter, on the other hand, was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, enjoying her first cup of coffee on the couch, remote in hand.

“They’ve got all the Christmas movies On Demand now! Awesome!” she squealed.

I had to escape. Get out of the house. Find a way to stay awake for the next — what? — 10 hours!

I took refuge in my favorite department store, only to have my senses assaulted by holiday merchandise of every ilk: Christmas sweaters with appliquéd partridges in pear trees, candy canes by the dozen, tinsel and trimming, must-have video game bundles for under the tree. Carols filtered through the P.A. system.

“I’m not ready for this, people!” I cried to whoever would listen.

By the time I got home that afternoon, the light was already changing in our backyard. It would be dark by 6, 5:30 maybe. I’d be fast asleep by 7, if I wasn’t careful.

“I’m exhausted,” I announced as I entered the living room.

“The best way to spread Christmas cheer, is singing loud for all to hear,” my daughter said, brightly.

“Huh?” came my response.

“We elves try to stick to the four main food groups,” she responded. “Candy, candy canes, candy corns and syrup. Hahahaha!”

“What are you doing?” I asked, annoyed and suddenly craving those Snickers bars buried under my bras.

“It’s ‘Elf,’ Mom! Best Christmas movie EVER!”

“NO! It’s way too early. It’s not right. Why are you so happy about this?”

“I just like to smile,” she said. “Smiling’s my favorite ...”

(Hmm, maybe she IS Satan’s offspring.)

Just then, darkness fell. I padded around the house turning on lamps, wishing for a break — a reprieve from the onslaught to come. Wishing we could turn back time.

Oh yeah, but we already did that, didn’t we?

— Cathy Hamilton is a 53-year-old empty nester, wife, mother and author, who blogs every day at BoomerGirl.com.