Updated: Aug. 20, 2015
Originally Published: June 11, 2015
It’s 6 a.m., and I’m stumbling out of bed after a restless night, ready to wake my daughter for school—a routine I’ve kept since her kindergarten days. A beam of bright light seeps from the crack under her door, a clear indication that she’s pulled an all-nighter crafting a French paper she should’ve started days ago. This is high school; how will she survive college like this? I managed to, so surely she will, too.
I creak open the door, and the light floods into the hallway. “Mia?” I call out, my voice trailing off as I take a few steps back towards the stairs. Maybe she’s just in the shower. I search her space frantically, feeling a pang of anxiety. What if she just lost it and ran off into the cornfield, naked, on this frosty morning? My mind races; this year has been tough on her. On both of us, really.
Holding my breath, I step back into her room. A beloved old blanket from her childhood lies in disarray on her bed. Fear grips me as I approach and touch it. I can almost hear the headlines, “Local Teenager Perishes Finishing French Paper.” I’ve been a single mom for too long, and menopause isn’t helping my overactive imagination. Maybe I’m the one who needs a naked run through the cornfield—though the thought brings a smirk, I’m also worried the neighbors might call the cops.
I lift the blanket, revealing her small frame curled in yesterday’s clothes, lying sideways on the bed. I gently touch her head, and once again, the dreaded headline flashes in my mind. Standing beside my teenage daughter, I feel a mix of embarrassment over my silly worries and gratitude that she can’t read my thoughts.
I focus on her breathing; it rises and falls like waves lapping at the shore. This moment feels achingly familiar—those long hours I spent watching her sleep as a baby. That deep urge returns; I want to freeze this moment in time and hold her close forever.
I glance at the clock, sensing it’s time to wake her. Hesitation washes over me. I know what’s coming—a morning of whining and teenage tantrums. She’ll plead to stay home, fully aware of my soft spot. Being my only child, the thought of her leaving for college next year looms large. So, she’ll likely stay home today, sleeping late into the afternoon. And every now and then, I’ll peek into her room and just watch.
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In summary, the early morning ritual of waking my daughter brings a mix of nostalgia and anxiety. As I grapple with the realities of parenting a teenager, I treasure these fleeting moments, knowing how quickly they can change.