Are You Awake Yet?

Why is it that kids cannot wake you up mornings in a civil manner? They become these creepy little midgets who hover over you in your sleep. Seven out of seven days of the week, I’m forced awake by the feeling that someone is staring at me. I crack one eyelid open ever so slightly and am face to face with my son, who has been standing there for God only knows how long, breathing on me.

After a nice long scream, groggily beating my comforter to death and making sure I’ve not wet myself, I officially come awake. I don’t have to drink coffee in the mornings. I have a nice cup-o’ adrenaline. It saves me a fortune in caffeine, but I end up having to use what I’ve saved to dye the grey from my hair each month.
After settling myself down and allowing my brain a moment to register that no, I am not about to be murdered, the talking begins. I’m never greeted with “Good Morning! How did you sleep?” It’s always, “Hey, I’m hungry!” or “If I accidentally ate a plastic dinosaur, would that be bad?”
“You’ll have to wait until Mommy’s stroke is over, then we can talk about food.” I’ll tell him, hoping he’ll leave me to it and come back an hour later. This never happens.
“I’ll starve to death. I will starve and you’ll just be sitting there looking like that lady down the road that my friend Joey says looks like her cat. Joey also told me that he saw her in real life once and she smelled like soup. Can I have soup for breakfast? Moooommmmmmm…get up!” he says, using his little hands to create earthquake sized aftershocks on my mattress. His lack of concern over having compared his mother to a cat lady who smells like soup disturbs me.
Not wanting to allow my poor child to wither away, up I get, onward with the formal morning routine.
Rising and shining is not my strong suit. I’m more of a rolling out of bed and groaning like a rabid animal kind of gal. My hair looks like it’s been styled by a nice long ride on the hood of an airplane. And, if it’s any indication, I’ve been made fun of for my taste in tacky sleepwear for years. If you’ve ever wondered who would buy the way-to-big-for-normal-people sized pajama pants, decorated with miniature watermelon slices, look no further. I’m right here.
Something happens in the morning that makes time speed up and people slow down. You just can’t move fast enough to keep up. Your kids take three hours to get dressed. You go to put on your socks, pleased you were able to find two that matched in under two minutes, only to look at the clock and realize that, indeed, an hour has gone by.
I’m waiting for scientists to study this phenomena. Until then I’ll keep hoping that I’m able to adapt to this oddity and get where I’m going on time.
Once we’re ready, it takes, at the very least, six hours to get from the house to the car. I’ve tried explaining to my son that we don’t need to pick up every stick in the yard, nor do we have the time to go hunting for four leaf clovers.
“But, mom. I need the stick to find the four leaf clovers that will give me luck for school. You can’t send me to school without luck, I might never get to 4th grade!” He says, looking at me like I’m some abusive parent who cares nothing for his education.
“Don’t but mom me, mister. Move it. Mommy needs to go to work so she can make sure nobody comes and reposesses your Playstation.” I tell him, knowing that I’ll spend the whole ride to school explaining what reposess means. Then assuring him that “Mommy was just being a dramatic.”
Once the morning is done and you’re at work, time slows to a snails pace. It is something that I can never hope to comprehend. I find myself with the urge to call Doc Brown from Back to the Future, just so I can find some peace of mind. Knowing that I can skip back and forth through time would be a priceless comfort.
I would, however, request that my time machine be something a little more stylish then a DeLorean.