I did not want to get out of bed this morning. My bed is comfy; I feel like an angel sleeping in a fluffy cloud. Okay, so maybe I’m not an angel, and I’ve never slept in a fluffy cloud, but it feels the way I imagine it feels to sleep in a fluffy cloud.
Yet, I forced myself to crawl out of my heavenly place—as I do every day—and almost every day, it goes something like this:
As I walk out of my bedroom, I get slapped by my dopey dog’s gator-like tail and almost trip over her, who by the way pretends she doesn’t understand English commands, but somehow can read English thoughts—if they involve her receiving treats, going for a walk, or going for a ride. Then I open the door to my 16-year-old son’s room and get smacked across the face with the smell of dirty teenage gym laundry. I wake the kid and then let the dog out to take care of her business. I groggily try to jog across the yard to grab her before she jumps the fence—in yet another of her escape attempts. I drag her back into the house. I make coffee, and I wake the kid again. I make breakfast, eat, and pick out my clothes. And, I wake the kid again. I walk into the bathroom, trip over the kid’s dirty clothes that he left strewn across the bathroom floor the night before. I take a shower, brush my teeth, comb my hair, and dream of dumping a bucket of ice water on the kid to wake him. I decide to be nice and instead yelled at him “WAKE UP!” to which he grouchily responds, “You don’t have to yell.” I force myself to remember the little boy who used to live with me—the one that this big grump replaced—the little boy who woke the first time I went into his room and who thought I was the greatest thing that ever graced the planet. I’ve heard rumors that that someday that sweet little boy will return in a man-sized version, but I have a hard time believing it.
Then I go into the kitchen, feed the dog, dream of the day the kid’s grown, out of the house, and has his own teenagers, give the dog water, fix my lunch, and then walk down the hall to remind my now half-dressed son that we need to leave in 15 minutes. I check my e-mail, pack all items I need for the workday, and threaten to make the kid go to school half-dressed if he isn’t ready in five minutes. Exactly five minutes later, he saunters down the hall, shoes and unmatched socks in hand, teeth unbrushed, and announces that he is ready to go.
“Where’s your backpack? Did you eat something for breakfast? Did you grab something for lunch? What about your teeth? Do you have your gym clothes? Wallet? Cell phone? Did you take your vitamins?”
“Oh, I forgot.”
He just said two of my five least favorite words: “I forgot” and “I don’t know.” I look at my Houdini dog with a look that says, “And you, with all your escape antics, are the easy one.” She looks back at me as if to say, “Yeah, I know, so can I have a treat?”
The kid walks back to the bathroom brushes his teeth, and decides he needs to use the restroom. Five minutes later, he comes out, goes to his room to get the rest of his stuff, returns, and says, “I can’t find my wallet or my phone.”
“Fine. Then you will have to walk to my office after school.”
“I’ll just walk to the gym,” he says and walks back down the hallway. On his return, he says, “I found my wallet and phone.”
“Amazing that you can find things when your freedom is at risk,” I say as I feel my lips purse, my nostrils flare, and my right eyebrow arch.
By now, you’re probably thinking, that I should leave without him. Well, let me tell you, the thought runs through my mind almost daily. But, then I remember when I was 16. I would have thought I won the lottery if my mom left without me on a school day. What kid wouldn’t want a day to sleep in, talk on the phone, draw, play video games, go wherever he wants, and watch TV? Nope. This kid isn’t getting off that easy. He hates school, so leaving him would be the same treat it would have been for me. If I need to, I will let him be late, march him into the principal’s office, and make him tell the principal why he’s tardy.
“Let’s go,” I say, and I tell the dog, “Please, no escape attempts today.”
I finally get the kid and his bare, size 15 pedal flappers into the car, where he begins to put on his shoes and socks.
“Son, you are 16. We have this same challenge every day. You need to get it together, because I’m not going to be that mom who calls you when you’re 40 and runs through the list with you to make sure you are ready every morning.”
As I finish speaking, I realize that if I didn’t know otherwise, I would think he’s completely deaf and blind and doesn’t know I exist.
We are two strangers inching our way through rush-hour traffic in near silence—me who knows nothing, and my teenager who knows everything—at least that’s his opinion. The only noise comes from the radio and the sound that leaks from his iPod earphones.
I pull up to his school to drop him off. “Have a good day. I love you,” I tell him, while thinking to myself, “but the jury’s out on whether or not I like you today.”
“Mmm…hmm,” he grunts as he slams the car door.
I drive away to meet my carpool partner, who also happens to be my friend and my parenting guidance counselor.
“Good morning, sunshine!” She says as she pulls up. “Do you need some coffee? How is Kut Master Kane?” (Kut Master Kane is my son’s DJ name. He’s got it all planned; he’s going to be an international success as a DJ, and he doesn’t understand why he needs school to do it.)
I pass on the offer to get coffee. We drive to the parking lot and meander to the office, where on our walk to and through the building, several smiling faces and hellos greet us.
I sit down in my quiet cubicle, put on my earphones, turn on my iPod, and escape into the peaceful world of writing, researching, and editing, and I realize that although I wouldn’t trade the kid or the dog for anything in the world, I need breaks from them. I need to feel a sense of achievement separate from them and that I’m contributing to the greater good, and as a public servant, I can do that. Home and work offer me the balance I need.
Now why didn’t I want to get out of bed this morning?
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