For most of my children’s lives, they were early risers. Weekends meant nothing to them—when six o’clock would roll around (or even earlier on holidays) they would be up and walking around, if not exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, then most definitely empty-stomached and chattering. What’s more, no sooner would they be up then they would be asking me questions, telling me about what they were going to do that day, and asking for—and eating—enormous breakfasts.
And then, one by one, they hit middle school. And it all stopped. Which is, if you ask me, a total gyp.
The whole time they were dragging me out of bed when they were in grade school I used to comfort myself with the knowledge that, while it might be a pain now, at least I didn’t have the type of kids you had to attack with a bucket of cold water and and a cattle prod just to get out of bed and on their feet in the mornings. At least I didn’t have the type of kids that you had to stick a funnel in their mouths and pour in a protein shake just to get them to eat before noon. At least I didn’t have the type of kids that are such a staple in the comics world that the “sleeping teenager” theme sometimes runs simultaneously in four strips in one day. At least, I thought, I didn’t have that.
Ha. That’s what I get for thinking.
The worst part of the whole thing, though, is that I thought it was going to be an either/or proposition. I though you EITHER had kids that woke you up at two AM on Christmas Day, OR you had kids that went into a coma every morning until ten: I didn’t know that it was possible to have both.
Some people say that it is the fault of the schools. That since the natural circadian rhythm of a teenager is to stay up until midnight and then sleep until ten in the morning we are just asking for trouble by making our schools start at seven thirty. That may be true, but, then again, I would also argue that it is in nobody’s “circadian rhythm” to perform quadratic equations at any time of the day or night, and yet we still ask our teenagers to do that. My point is that there are very few people, outside of kings and dictators, who get to choose their own sleep schedule—why should teenagers be allowed to join that select list? I mean, seriously, I don’t know how things are in your house, but in my house I could do with having a few less reasons to be reminded of Khaddafi when I’m dealing with my teens, not more.
And so, having firmly rejected the circadian rhythms argument, I, too, have joined the ranks of those who, every school day, must wake the (sleeping like the) dead. Which means that, I, too, must come up up with an elaborate plan to help those same walking dead get up and get functioning every morning. You know: one of those plans that look like they were co-designed by Wiley Coyote? In our house this means alarm clocks, wake-up calls, threats, and finally, bribes (“We have waaaa-ffles.”)
This, not too surprisingly, fills me with a certain amount of resentment. Where, I wonder, is my triple wake up call? Where is my congratulations when I manage to get myself up and out the door in time to meet my obligations? For that matter, where in the hell are my waffles?
I suppose, if I were being completely honest I would admit that my waffles are back in my own teenage years; unfortunately, however, I don’t recall eating a single one of them.
I guess I slept right through them.