Sometimes your kids sleep patterns just don't synch with yours.
Alarm goes off at 6am. Ugh. Hit snooze. And again.
And so on. With 3 minutes until I really MUST get up, as I hide under the duvet, every second is savoured, lovingly experienced to the fullest. Those 3 minutes are an epic study in living in the moment, like being sucked inside a cheesy PowerPoint email or episode of Oprah. All that’s missing are the weeping angels and kittens with balls of string.
It’s heaven for a connoisseur of inertia, such as myself.
Alas, 3 minutes is soon up and here come the loud stomping footsteps. Clomp, clomp, pause. Cruel teen son is on his way. A 16-year-old despot, intent on making my life miserable. I brace myself. Here it comes - BAAM. Lights go on, straight into my eyes, Guantanamo Bay style.
“Mom! Coffee!” He’s way too chipper. He’s been awake for ages, dressed, made school lunch, tinkered with his world domination plans. Smug bugger. Aren’t teenage boys supposed to be lazy slobs who need to be poked out of bed with stick? Where’d this skippy, happy, early bird come from? He was just the same as a toddler. He didn’t get the point of sleeping. Wake up time got earlier and earlier – just past 4am at our lowest point - after waking roughly a gazillion times in the night.
Maybe that’s why I’ve turned into such a duvet addict.
If you think waking his mom with coffee is a sweet thing to do – you’d be wrong. Cunningly, he leaves the cup on the desk at the door, so I’m forced to get out of bed. Which I do, eventually. I shuffle to the bathroom, mumbling obscenities.
“Hi Mom! How’d you sleep?” he chirps as I pass. If he was any brighter-eyed or bushier-tailed, he’d actually BE a squirrel.
“Grrrk. Shnigl. Pffft“, I say. I’m Grumpy Smurf and I hate everything.
Thankfully, I do get more human as the day progresses, although there’s another small mood dip around suppertime. I rail against the unfairness of having to cook and the smallest excuse is reason not to. Bad day? Can’t possibly manage to cook. Had a great day? Need to celebrate, let’s not cook. Queen of Sloth, remember?
I do recover, and sometimes manage a second wind when I’m tempted to bake scones or do some work. Unfortunately, Mr. Bright Eyes has gone downhill. He’s a morning person and 8pm is considered the middle of the night. His fuse gets shorter as the evening gets longer. Theoretically, there’s probably a moment during the day when our circadian rhythms are in sync and we’d be able to talk to each other in English. Just haven’t pinpointed it yet.
At 8pm I could have a meaningful chat, quality time and what-have-you. But he’s all about bugger off and leave me alone.
“Grrrk. Shnigl. Pffft. I’m going to bed”, he snipes as he stalks off, finally doing a perfect impression of a real 16 year old. And the next day it’s lather, rinse, repeat. One of those circle of life thingies.
Are your kids early birds or night owls?