It’s 6 a.m. and I stumble out of bed after a restless night, preparing to wake my daughter for school—something I’ve been doing since her kindergarten days. A bright light spills from the gap beneath her door, a clear indication she’s been up late, probably working on a French paper she should have started days ago. She’s still in high school, and I can’t help but wonder how she’ll manage when college rolls around. I got through it, so I suppose she will, too.
I creak open her door, and the light floods her room. I call out her name, a hint of uncertainty in my tone as I head down the stairs. Maybe she’s just in the shower. I search the house, but there’s no trace of her. Did she lose her mind and run off? Thoughts race through my mind; this year has been particularly challenging for both of us.
Holding my breath, I return to her room. A blanket from her childhood lies crumpled on the bed. Approaching with trepidation, I lift it gently, imagining the headlines: “Local Teenager Collapses While Writing French Paper.” I’ve been a single mom for too long, and menopause isn’t helping. These are the early morning thoughts that occupy my mind. Maybe I’m the one who should go for a reckless run through the cornfield. It brings a smirk to my face, but the thought of the neighbors seeing me is enough to keep me grounded.
I lift the blanket and find her curled up, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, lying sideways on the bed. Gently, I touch her head, and once more, that grim headline flashes in my mind. Standing there beside my sleeping daughter, I feel a rush of embarrassment over my morbid thoughts. Thankfully, she can’t read my mind.
My eyes are drawn to her breathing. Her shoulder rises and falls rhythmically, reminiscent of the nights I stood by her crib, ensuring she was still alive. That yearning returns—if only I could freeze time in this moment, just to gaze at her.
I glance at the clock and know it’s time to wake her. Hesitation grips me; I anticipate the familiar whine and teenage drama as she protests, wanting to stay home. She’s well aware of my soft spot. As my only child, she’ll be off to college next year, and I can already envision her sleeping in late, perhaps even skipping school today. I might even find myself peeking into her bedroom from time to time, lost in thought.
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In summary, navigating the mornings with a teenager can be filled with both stress and nostalgia. As I watch my daughter sleep, I’m reminded of the fleeting nature of time and the bittersweet moments of parenting.
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