On weekends and holidays, my children seem to have a competition with the chirping birds over who can rise the earliest. The sun has barely started to rise when they leap out of bed, full of energy, as if their sheets were infused with espresso. The concept of “sleeping in” is lost on them unless it’s prefaced with “Can we” and followed by “in the living room” or “in a tent,” anything but their own beds.
But come school days, that morning zeal is mysteriously absent. Instead, they’re sprawled out like little logs, drooling into their pillows, as if their cheap twin mattresses are enchanted feather beds. I brace myself for the next 20 minutes, knowing all too well that this part of the day is a nightmare.
Waking them up is a challenge on multiple fronts. For starters, the early morning is one of the few times my house is blissfully quiet, cocooned under a blanket of stillness. There’s no arguing, whining, or the sound of some electronic gadget beeping away. Disturbing that peacefulness feels inherently wrong—like ringing a foghorn at a serene concert or smearing mustard on chocolate pudding.
Having spent countless hours trying to keep them asleep as babies—like tackling the delivery guy to prevent the doorbell from ringing—I’ve conditioned myself to let them snooze. So, waking them up feels like the opposite of everything I’ve worked for over the years. My instincts scream for them to sleep, even now that they’re school-aged.
I start off gently, opening the curtains and letting in a stream of light, hoping they’ll awaken as brightly as the sun. “Good morning!” I chirp enthusiastically, channeling my inner Mary Poppins. I stroke their arms and pat their backs. The response? Absolutely nothing. They remain as still as boulders.
So, I escalate my approach—getting a bit louder and more insistent. My gentle pats turn into nudges, and my soft murmurs become direct commands: “Hey, it’s time to get up.” If I’m lucky, I get a muffled groan; most of the time, they just pull the covers over their heads, as if that will make me disappear.
At this point, my “mean mom” voice comes out, a fierce blend of a drill sergeant and a villain: “GET! OUT! OF BED!” By the time they finally open their eyes, we’re all glaring at each other. I sometimes wonder if crashing through the wall like the Kool-Aid Man would be considered excessive.
And let’s not forget the added pressure of time. I’m not just waking them up; I’m racing against the clock. If I don’t get them up and out the door, it leads to a series of unfortunate events, including the dreaded task of putting on a bra for drop-off. This fear fuels my determination to get them out of bed—there’s no way they’re missing that bus.
Thus, five mornings a week, I endure this exhausting ritual. It’s a constant struggle, but once they finally wake up, they transform into decent little humans. After I regain my composure, we can move on with our morning routine. It becomes smooth sailing—except for their complaints about breakfast choices, the little ingrates. But at least they’re dressed and ready by then.
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In summary, waking kids up for school is a daily battle filled with frustration, noise, and a race against time, yet ultimately leads to a productive, albeit chaotic, morning routine.