As many of you know, there are times when I do things "for my kids" that are actually just more convenient for me. For instance, none of my children will be Olympic swimmers or ice hockey players. The reason is that both of these sports require rising before the crack of dawn to get to practice at some pool or rink by 4:30 a.m. This is absolutely ludicrous. I choose things for my children that happen at reasonable times of day. Both baseball and soccer are played at a time when any sane individual (albeit perhaps not one who works the third shift at any manufacturing plant) is up and enjoying the day. Admittedly, even 9:00 a.m. games are a stretch for me. But at least the paper is reporting that day break has occurred.
Henry is not a sports guy. He prefers activities like playing the piano and violin. I wholeheartedly supported his passion. Violin and piano take place during hours in which I effectively operate. Or at least I thought so. Turns out that the string ensemble practice start at 7:30 A.M. on Monday mornings. What the hey??? As if the 7:30 a.m. thing isn't bad enough, why choose Monday morning? Monday comes on the heels of Sunday evening - when even well behaved children are still coming down off the high of staying up later on Friday and Saturday. And finally, I question the sanity of the conductor. What person of sound mind chooses to hear the screeching of string instruments before their coffee has had a chance to infuse caffeine in to the bloodstream? It just ain't right.
To add insult to injury, Henry is NOT a morning guy. He is the last to drag himself out of bed. He procrastinates so much in the morning that it is a rare and honored event when his arrival at the breakfast table is not preceded by someone screaming up the stairs that WE ARE GOING TO BE LATE. Inevitably, he gets dressed downstairs at the breakfast table and leaves his pajamas on the table when he is finished. This makes for some contention between the two of us, but there are so many things to beg him to do before we leave for school (eat something, brush teeth, make bed, get backpack ready) that I almost never make it all the way to "get your damn pj's off the table for Pete's Sake. I am NOT the maid!!" In the end, this is what I say out loud to myself when I get home from dropping them off. And yes, I do talk out loud to myself.
As for son #2, Georgie is a rooster of a boy who has adapted his habits to live with a group of late sleepers. He was already out of the shower by the time by alarm clock chirped this morning. On most days he is skulking quietly around just waiting to someone else to get up and hang out with him. I don't understand this. Why would anyone get out of bed a minute before they had to? Even if I am awake before the alarm goes off, I purposefully lay there and pretend to be sleeping just to get those last moments in of being horizontal underneath the covers.
So, after writing this, I am left with two questions. First, is it possible that I am squelching Georgie's inner hockey player by making him adapt to my time zone? And second, is it morally reprehensible that I yell at Henry for dragging his butt in the morning given that that is exactly what I really want to be doing? Answers to both: Course not! It's good to be the Mom!
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