Don't Shoot the Messenger

I remember the days when I sorely wished my kids would sleep in. Like, I would've given my right boob (or actually maybe my left one, which at the time was bigger) just to be able to sleep in until like ... 7:30. There was even a time when I thought there was something abnormal about my kids because they woke up sooooo early, so consistently — and even when they got older, they never seemed to sleep more like everybody said they would. 

But now that they're teenagers (well, Colin is out of his teens and gets himself up for work every day so that's one less to deal with, thank goodness) you would think that I'm asking them for a damn kidney every morning when it's time to get up. I don't even bother waking them on weekends — I just let them sleep until whenever — but on weekday mornings, we still have a schedule to stick to. So here I am, mustering up every ounce of morning cheerfulness I can possibly muster in an attempt to make things go as smoothly as possible.

AND YET.

My children act like I myself am the person responsible for creating the rules that require them to be at school by 7:15 am. They act like I purposely set out to make their lives miserable by ousting them from their cozy beds. Like I take extreme pleasure in waking them up. Like it's the best part of my day.

Listen. Gentlemen. I wake you up because somebody has to. I did not set the school start time (and honestly, I have issues with it). I do not revel in being as cheerful and lighthearted as possible when I myself have just woken up, only to be greeted with snarls and groans and whatever other noises you make to express your extreme displeasure. Do you think I like being the person you hate most every single morning? No. And coincidentally, if you are too tired to get out of bed, remember that I am not the one who made you stay up later than you should have. 

I realize getting up sucks. I don't know why they don't realize that getting up also sucks when you're a mom, and that their crap-ass attitudes are just adding insult to injury, but here I am — still smiling through it. This morning I reminded Cameron — for like the third time — that he needed to get a move on, and he replied "I KNOW, MOM" so testily that I could practically feel the death stare through the closed door. 

Then when they're late, which someone inevitably is, is every single week, I get a call from the school that basically says "You're a terrible mother and can't even manage to get your kids out the door on time" (well, that's what I hear, anyway). So that's always fun. As if I didn't even try. As if I'm over here on my couch scrolling through TikTok, not caring that my children have a schedule to adhere to or an education to get.

... Although who knows? If I was doing that, maybe I'd be in a better mood in the mornings.