Wakey, Wakey!

Not a morning person doesn’t begin to cover it.  I’m hard wired that way, too, and have been since early childhood.  Whoever said that kids bounce out of bed ready to go never met me.  I was probably eight when I asked my mother why we couldn’t sleep all day and play all night.  With either the wisdom born of ages, or the weariness born of scenting yet another winless argument, she smiled and said, “well, YOU can, honey, but you won’t have anyone to play with.”

I managed to find college classes that didn’t start at dawn, (except the hard sciences- why does anyone think that O chem. will make more sense before coffee?)  and a career that has swing shifts.  Life was good.  Bars stay open late, single people can pretty much do as they please regarding sleep.  Even in our early married life, the fact that I had married an early bird did not faze me much.   There was plenty of time we could spend together.  He could get up early, and come back to bed when I was waking.

But then I had children.

Infants, of course, are the original Zen.  They have no clocks; they live only in the now.  I’m hungry NOW.  I need to be comforted NOW.  My diaper is messy NOW.  Toddlers are only marginally better.  The improvement comes in that they can entertain themselves for short periods, and they themselves sleep longer, not in that they have any more patience.  So the spaces between their demands are greater.  MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!  is only a tad better than WAAAAAAAAHHHH!, but at least it doesn’t usually happen in the wee hours.  It does, however begin as soon as the little dears open their eyes, and continues as long as those gorgeous eyes are open, which is why all mothers love naps.  My darlings didn’t nap.  The oldest believed firmly from an early age that we did amazingly interesting things whenever he closed his eyes. If you consider washing the dishes or also napping amazing, as I did, I guess he was right.  He fought naps.  We rocked, sang, watched golf, even bass fishing worked for a while (who knew THAT was a televised sport!) but eventually he took to biting and slapping himself to stay awake, and I gave up trying for naps when he was about 15 months old.  The only mercy was that he slept a solid 6- 8 hrs at night by the time he was a year old, so I could as well.  

When Propel was about three, his brother came along.  Sarsaparilla was a different breed.  He did nap, but only when he was exhausted, which could be anytime, and then only for long enough to recharge, which might be 15 minutes, or it might be 2 hrs.  Problem was, it wasn’t on a schedule.  That whole schedule thing was not his bag.  He usually slept 6 hours a night, but got up early.  This is not helpful for someone working swing shift.  If you go to bed at midnight, being roused at 5 is unpleasant at best.

But now the worm has turned.  The little angels are teens, and Sarsaparilla, he of the hopping out of bed joyously with the sun, ready to climb ladders and run into walls, has become a sloth.  Waking him is like walking a minefield.  One enters cautiously, and turns on the dimmest light in the room, gently announcing one’s presence.  Gradually, the lights may be increased along with the volume, and eventually, something slithers out of the bed and into the shower.  “Oh”, you say,” where is his alarm clock?  He should be responsible for getting himself out of bed!”  Wise words indeed, if school were optional, or lateness didn’t count.  Re-learning the art of waking is another of the difficult processes along the great climb to independence.  Propel has finally reached alarm clock independence at 16.  He sleeps in a loft, and sets the alarm below the loft and across the room.  It chirps in increasing volume, until I am convinced the smoke alarm has gone off and the house is on fire.  Indeed, he comes down the ladder like a fireman, shunning several rungs,  and emerges from his room with all the cheerfulness of a hibernating bear aroused untimely from his slumber.

Sadly, achieving uprightness is only the first stage we must endure.  It’s like emergence from anesthesia.  Getting the patient to open their eyes does not ensure that they will breathe on their own.  I work in a hospital where we serve the under-served, as well as take care of trauma.  This means street people, substance abusers, and the like.  One of the tricks of emergence is knowing what will reach into the subconscious mind of the patient and bring them into the present.  I laughed myself silly the day a very clever anesthesiologist woke an old alcoholic by saying “Last Call!!”  Anyway, the schools seem to object to unfed pajama clad students, so a mother’s work is never done.

Time does fly when you’re having fun.  But it also seems to go double-speed when a child goes into KOMO Super SLO-MO.  Sarsaparilla has finished his shower, and his morning constitutional, without which not even Chuck Norris would confront him.  I have timed some soft-boiled eggs perfectly for when he emerges, knowing that they do not require chewing, and therefore meet his breakfast standards, while also meeting mine.  But he does not come to the eggs.  He slouches toward the stairs.   “Where are you going?”  I ask, patiently.  No reply.  “Well, hurry up, I have eggs ready.”  7 minutes later, he has not emerged.  “What in the name of Fried Green Tomatoes are you doing down there?” I shout.   “I’m putting on my shoes,” comes the mumbled reply.  “What?  Are they resisting?” I shout back.  “Get up here NOW!”  Not being a morning person myself, I do hate to have to use my MOMMY voice before the coffee has kicked in, but what’s a girl to do?  Of course by the time he gets to the eggs, they are almost hard-boiled, and require butter and much mashing to meet the no chewing standard, which takes time he no longer has.   It also calls the cat, who has the notion that clinking dish sounds mean she should be fed.  Sarsaparilla has the notion that a cat is an excuse for dropping everything because she must need attention and he is about to do so, when the Mommy voice comes out again, and he swallows the eggs in a huff, just as the carpool pulls up in the driveway.  He shuffles out the door, leaving the poster he worked on all the previous afternoon, and which is due today, sitting by the coffee table .

Is it wrong to put Kahlua in your coffee before it’s light out?

Dry Gin Martini M.D., always up for a nightcap.