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.
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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.
