The Dance of the Seven Snooze Alarms

It's Saturday, which means that my teenage daughter and I get to sleep in an extra hour before we start our daily dance. 

That's not a poetic symbol (or even a euphemism) for life or anything. It truly feels like we're dancing.

I take three steps toward my partner; she either ignores me or spins around with an exasperated flourish. I retreat, gingerly stepping backwards, mindful of discarded clothes and schoolwork and empty snack bags that litter her carpet. But, I return minutes later to face the music again. This goes on for ten, twenty, sometimes thirty minutes — despite my best efforts and despite not one but two alarm clocks she's set to sound intermittently.

It's a sinister salsa, a terrifying tarantella. A dance to the death. 

And, to date, my daughter is winning. She rolls over, reaches out for the snooze alarm and — "Olé!" — we begin again.

Sometimes, when we're in between moves, I'll head down to the kitchen to cut some fruit or pack her lunch. I need to make coffee, feed the dog and get ready for my morning walk. Or I might have some overnight emails from clients or colleagues to review. Often, after my fourth or fifth trip up to the dance floor, I'll ask my husband to take a turn. 

"Nooooooo," I'll hear the child wail from the bed. "I'm soooo tired."

"This has to stop!" I'll hear her father say. 

Yeah, right.

It's not like I don't know what's going on here. My daughter is tired. She does have too much homework. She does spend too many hours at the stable on her horse. (She also spends too many hours on Netflix watching One Tree Hill. WTF?) And of course, there's all that texting she's expected to do. And Snapchat and Instagram and Vine and ... God knows what else. (God may know; I certainly don't.)

Plus, there's scientific (And therefore irrefutable, right? Unless you're the GOP. Wink, wink.) evidence that teenagers need more sleep — and at different times — than we grownups do. When my daughter argues that going to bed earlier won't help, she's actually half right.

So, here I am. One mother of a human alarm clock. We dance back and forth every morning, as we dance around the fact that we only have a few months of mornings left. I can't very well fly to Ohio or Vermont or New Hampshire or Rhode Island at 6:00 am each day once college starts in the fall.

Of course, she can take the route my freshman roommate (and so many other enterprising students) did back in 1980: only register for classes that begin after 10:00 am. But, that might limit what she studies.

Or, perhaps she'll rise to the occasion. She'll make her own bed. She'll do her own laundry. She'll read and study and write papers without my nagging. She'll dress appropriately for inclement weather. She'll take her vitamins. And, she'll get up on time.

I hope so.

But, I think I'll buy her another alarm clock. Just in case.


If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien.   

Lookin' Good Mom

In many households, weekends mean that an overworked, underpaid and utterly unappreciated maternal type such as myself might sleep in. 

But, no. Not in our house. 

You see, summertime Saturdays often mean equestrian events which often mean crack-of-dawn mornings at the stable, packing, tacking and trailering. I'm happy to report that I have nothing to do with any of that. But, I do get up for less horsey tasks: making lunch, for example. Or ensuring that my young champion hasn't hit the snooze button one or two (or six) times too many.

Yesterday was just such a Saturday. I was up at six. I fed the dog, I pulled out a lunchbox and a cooler. I was about to go up and begin my morning nag ritual, but I heard my drowsy daughter in the bathroom.

It never ceases to amaze me how she manages to get herself up for horse shows when a load of dynamite under her bed wouldn't wake her on a school day.

But, I digress.

No one in our house has had time to grocery shop lately, so pulling together a traveling lunch was tricky. (Lately, I've sent the offspring off to work with ramen noodles — I know, I know, FLOTUS would be appalled. But, alas, even this option was out of the question; no microwaves at the showgrounds.) Luckily, I found a leftover piece of chicken which I shredded, added some cheese and rolled the whole thing (with a little extra barbecue sauce for good measure) in a spinach wrap. Voila! I figured she would either love it or it (should I say "I?") would suck. But, it was pretty much the only option. I added chips, some not as fresh as-it-once-was fruit, Goldfish crackers and a strange Oreo line extension dessert, a little package of chocolate wafer sticks with a small cup of white frosting filling to dip them into (the last time I actually did go to the grocery store, my daughter insisted that she "needed" said item). I also packed six bottles of water though, so at least I get good mommy points in the hydration department.

Meanwhile, the teen came downstairs, looking neat as a pin in clean riding breeches, tall black boots and a "Got Schmidt?" tee shirt from her favorite show New Girl. She would change into a blouse, stock tie and jacket before the competition. Her hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail (which I would change into a pristine bun before the competition).

"Can you juggle cars with me?" she asked. I'll explain.

We live in a neighborhood that was built around the same time the colonies were transforming themselves into a more perfect union. Suffice it to say, our founding fathers and mothers didn't really plan ahead for parking. We are very fortunate here in "olde town" that our property actually accommodates three cars. But, it's a bit of a jigsaw puzzle. My Miata (24 years old and counting; really, we can get "antique" plates next year) is her vehicle of choice, naturally. But, her father's sedan was blocking it in. Thus, the need for the aforementioned juggling.

So, remember two paragraphs ago when I bragged about how crisp my daughter looked? Let's now contrast that with her ever-loving mamacita. I was wearing a night shirt, one of those oversized tees, faded, stretched out of shape, and embellished with a huge dachshund that wraps front to back with the words "I long to be around you." My hair was standing pretty much straight up. My makeup from the night before, which apparently I hadn't removed despite some lovely skincare products my mother has given me over the years, was smudged around my eyes. And I was barefoot. So, to facilitate car-juggling — and to complete my lovely ensemble — I grabbed a pair of black Uggs from the coat closet.

This last addition was of great interest to our new puppy. I could practically hear him thinking "Wow! Mom put two chew toys on her feet! Far out!" He nipped and tugged all the way to the back door, where I grabbed keys and headed out in all my glory. To my daughter's credit, my appearance was rewarded with only the slightest of eye rolls.

I consoled myself with the thought that no one could actually see me as long as I was behind the wheel of the car. Unfortunately though, as soon as my daughter drove off, I had to pull back into our property and shut the gate. Naturally, two neighbors chose to walk by just at that moment, as did the sweet man who bags groceries at the store that I haven't managed to get to lately. He usually hands me my purchases with a charming "Lovely to see you as always."

Yesterday morning, despite a rather reluctant and embarrassed wave from me, he said nothing.

Hmmmm ... wonder why?

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

It's So Alarming

School's out and you might think our morning routine would be a little less stressful. 

Mais non, mes amis. 

We still go through the same dance of the alarms. Just an hour or so later. 

I'm one of those people who doesn't really need an alarm clock. Generally, I'm awake several minutes (or, in times of stress, several hours) before any alarm goes off. I've always been a morning person, relishing the quiet hours before the rest of the world wakes, enjoying long walks or quiet time to write or read.

My teenage daughter? Not so much.

This past week was the first real week of summer, as in no more classes, no more final exams. My daughter has a job at the stable where she trains and boards her horse; she's one of the counselors of the daycamp they run for junior riders. She also takes care of one of these eager young equestriennes before and after camp hours. She has to be at the stable by 8:30, which means she needs to leave our house by 8:00.

Her first alarm goes off at 7:00. If I'm near the door to her room, I can hear the incessant beeping, followed after several minutes by some moans, tired feet shuffling across the carpet and a determined click. The next alarm goes off at 7:20 and she repeats the process. A different alarm clock closer to her bed goes off at 7:30. At this point, she leans over and hits the snooze button affording herself another ten minutes.

And, if you've been doing the math (as I do each day), you can see that we're tempting trouble as the time passes. She insists that it only takes fifteen minutes to get dressed, wolf down some fruit and a muffin, and get out of the house. (I've already made her lunch and packed a cooler with bottled water — after all, I've been up listening to alarms for quite some time by now.) To her credit, her daily beauty routine is spare and efficient and, in theory, she could be on her way that quickly. The trouble is there's always something she has to check or forgot to do.

Like her cell phone. Apparently major world events happen every night between the time she shuts off Netflix episodes of The Office or Dance Moms and the time she finally succumbs to the cacophony of alarm clocks. She has to catch up on Facebook posts, Snapchats, Tumblr and tweets.

Meanwhile, her laptop is either streaming music or uploading videos or streaming music and uploading videos. It also takes an extra few minutes to find whatever she's planning to wear under the piles of clothing that she isn't planning to wear.

I've learned my lesson over the years, and I try to stay clear of her through all of this. A few minutes before 8:00, I can't help myself. I yell up the stairs — in as friendly a voice as I can muster — with a reminder that she needs to leave. "I KNOW!" she typically yells back, frustrated that (a) I'm nagging her, (b) I'm right, and (c) I exist.

As she rushes through the kitchen, toward one of the cars parked out back, I tell her to have a good day, drive safe and text me when she gets there.

Her irritation is palpable.

And, with my offspring finally off, I can start my own day. 

Just a little later than I might have liked. 

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

Wake-Up Call

My daughter's going to be late to school tomorrow.

I already know this. I already know this and I am the most exacting, punctual, always-early person you will ever meet. I already know this and I'm not doing anything about it. Here's why ...

Basically, it's a new year and I've made a declaration. She must get herself up. Enough already.

I wouldn't mind waking her in the morning if she actually opened her eyes, climbed out of bed and went about her business. I used to enjoy it, as a matter of fact. She used to be sweet and cuddly, happy to see me, pleased to start a shiny new morning.

Those were the days, my friend.

On a typical morning now, I get up at 6:00 a.m. (unless I have insomnia and have already headed up to my office to work — but that's another post entirely). I shower, dress, make the bed, and arrive at her room at 6:30. Then, the tango begins.

First, I try to get her up with a gentle salutation, a soft-spoken "Good morning, sweetheart" to express my unconditional love and start her day off on a kind, supportive note. No dice. My love may be unconditional, but our dialogue quickly devolves into conditions and downright threats. After several "Pleeeeeeease, Mom. I'm sooooooooo tired. Just two more minutes," I hear myself become a shrill harpy.

"If you don't get up now ..."

"I'm warning you ..."

"This is the last time ..."

Well, if I can stick to my guns (not always my most successful objective, I confess), today really was the last time. I'm sorry, but the fact that she always manages to be out the door in the very nick of time doesn't make up for the fact that I've been through thirty minutes of combat. She may be fine by the time she meets her friend at the corner, but I've started the day watching in horror as I become my own worst self. I sit down to my work distressed and disappointed.

Part of this morning's melodrama was my cruel and unusual methodology. After my initial attempts to rouse the sleeping tween, I turned on her lights. Only halfway, I might note. "Ooooooouuuuuuwwwwwwwwww!" she howled, "It hurts!"

Is this my daughter, I wondered, or a vampire?

Eventually, she rolled out of bed, scowling and resentful. This gave me enough confidence that I could go downstairs and make breakfast and lunch. Eventually, she followed, still angry and irritated. Eventually, she left for school. Her parting gift to her devoted mother? She allowed me to hug her and shot me a look that was ... well ... let's just say less-than-affectionate.

So, tired of being the unappreciated (downright detested) human alarm clock, I've set an electronic one on her night table. My husband, who is as fed up with observing our morning ritual as I am living it, has pulled a second alarm clock out of the guest room and placed it on her desk, twelve or so feet from her bed. If she's gonna hit the "snooze" button, she's gonna have to take a hike to do so.

My daughter has been warned. She has a riding lesson this afternoon and a babysitting gig this evening. She may be more tired than usual tomorrow morning (although I doubt that's possible). But, it is her responsibility to get up. Period. End of story.

Am I protesting a bit too much? If so, it's only because I have to maintain my resolve. This is for her own good, right? I mean, she has to learn, right? I mean, what kind of career can she have someday if she can't get up in the morning? (Rock star, bartender, late night DJ, international telemarketing rep?)

My daughter has always been a deep sleeper. And, I'm glad. (Heck, I'm envious.) But, she keeps asking for more responsibility. She keeps reminding us that she's "Not a kid anymore." All right then, here's your wake-up call, my dearest darling. 6:30 a.m. I can't think of a better time to grow up.

Did I mention? My daughter is going to be late to school tomorrow.

Morning Glory

"Good mornin', good mornin'!"

Y'know the scene in Singin' in the Rain when Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds and Donald O'Connor realize that their evening was so late ... it's early? They've pulled an all-nighter figuring out how to transform the silent movie The Dueling Cavalier into the talkie The Dancing Cavalier. With their problem solved, they realize that the sun is already on its way up — which, this being an MGM musical, gives them yet another reason to sing and dance. It's a famous and memorable sequence in a well-loved Hollywood classic.

It's also a terrific way to torture your tween. Trust me.

You see, I am my daughter's alarm clock, among the many many (thankless, overworked, underpaid) jobs I have. Don't get me wrong; she has a clock. She has a clock that she picked out herself two years ago. She has a clock that has a brightly lit display in which every digit is a different fluorescent color. She has a clock that has an alarm so loud and so shrill that I can hear it three rooms down the hall even if I'm in the shower.

Unfortunately, my daughter, an otherwise normal and healthy young woman, is apparently deaf and blind at 6:30 in the morning. Which is why yours truly must take on the role of said clock. She sleeps right through the alarm. However ... she can't sleep through me.

When she was little, I couldn't wait to wake her up. She was a good sleeper and she was always sweet and cheerful in the mornings. She was happy to get up. She was happy to see me. We typically snuggled a few minutes before choosing an outfit (that we actually agreed about, imagine that!) and starting our day together. Since I worked full-time in a city an hour away, those minutes we had together before I dropped her off at daycare were particularly precious to me. To both of us, I think.

Well ... suffice it to say that mornings are different now. Like everyone else her age, my daughter can't seem to get enough sleep. We've tried earlier bedtimes. But, she has too much homework and too many activities (and, between you and me, too many friends with Facebook accounts) to get to bed any sooner than she already does.

Of course, the problem, she insists is that school starts too early. Not that she's staying up too late. (Nah, going to bed late and getting up early couldn't possibly be related, right? Those two factors could never turn a perfectly normal tween into a stark-raving, fire-breathing, head-spinning little monster, could they? Didn't think so.)

Here's our new routine. "Good morning, sweetie," I offer cheerfully.

She doesn't move.

I walk in and open all the blinds. Her room has seven windows on three walls; when the blinds are open, it is b-r-i-g-h-t. I adjust the bedspread and the covers and her stuffed animals (mostly horses but a few squirrels — I'm really not sure why), all of which are now on the carpet.

She doesn't move.

By now, I'm feeling some pressure. Let's see, I still need to make breakfast, pack lunch, double check that all homework is complete and in the backpack, get a sense of any after school plans, start my own day. So, I begin coaxing, then coercing, then nagging, then threatening.

And, if at any point, I really want to make her cringe, I sing ...

Good mornin', good mornin'!

We've talked the whole night through,

Good mornin', good mornin' to you.

Good mornin', good mornin'!

It's great to stay up late.

Good mornin', good mornin' to you!

I never have to sing it twice.