I’m a night owl. I always have been. I’m usually up working until 2 or 3 a.m.
It stands to reason if I’m staying up until 2 and 3 a.m. that I want to sleep later in the morning. And by later, I mean I don’t want to wake up before 8 a.m. This is actually feasible since I taught my early riser, my newly turned six year old Ryan, how to turn on the TV and cable. Let’s just say when my kids were little and getting up multiple times a night, I wasn’t always a pleasant person in the morning.
Saturday’s used to be my sleep in day. I’d get wild and cra-zy and sleep until 9 or 9:30. That is until my newly turned nine year old daughter Jenna joined competition dance and has to be at practice at 8 a.m.
But I take her. Nearly every Saturday morning I drive her to practice bleary eyed and clutching a cup of coffee in my free hand, saying, “Never doubt my love for you. Getting up at 7:15 on a Saturday morning is all the proof you need.”
I’ll just sit here until someone hands me my Mother of the Year trophy.
I’m ashamed to say that Sunday has now become my sleep catch-up day. While most good Christians are at Sunday school, I’m buried under my covers.
But not the past Sunday.
Some of you know about my four year old daughter Emma. (The fact she shares a name with the main character of The Chosen series is purely coincidental. See this post about naming my characters.) MY Emma is strong willed but loving. She’s like fire and ice. And sometimes at the same time. She can be even tempered and just as instantly turn on you and growl, literally growl at you.
This past Sunday, I was sleeping my bed, snuggled under my comforter when I woke to:
“MOMMY!” shouted in an angry tone over and over again.
Being the ever attentive mother who puts her children’s needs above her own, I instantly rushed into Emma’s room to see what the problem was.
I buried my head under my pillow, thinking if I ignored her, she’d quit shouting.
“MOMMY! COME INTO MY ROOM!”
I pressed the pillow into my ear.
“MOMMY! COME INTO MY ROOM RIGHT NOW!”
It was only 8 a.m. but I realized the girl wasn’t going to stop. “COME INTO MY ROOM!” I shouted back.
“NO! YOU COME INTO MY ROOM!”
“I’M NOT GOING IN THERE! YOU COME IN HERE!” I buried my head again.
Ignore her. Ignore her. She’ll stop if I ignore her.
“MOMMY! COME IN HERE NOW!”
“I”M NOT GOING IN THERE! I’M SLEEPING! COME TO MY ROOM.”
“NO! YOU COME HERE!”
Finally, in frustration, I threw off my covers and climbed out of bed shouting, “I’M COMING IN THERE AND THIS BETTER BE IMPORTANT OR YOU’RE IN BIG TROUBLE!!!”
I stood next to the side of her bed and she glared up at me.
“I’m here. WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Putting my hand on my hip, I gave her my best “mom look.” The one that makes my older boys cringe with fear, but not this child. She scoffs in the face of danger.
“I WANT YOU TO GIVE ME A KISS!”
My mouth dropped open. “A kiss? YOU’VE BEEN SHOUTING AT ME FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES BECAUSE YOU WANT A KISS?”
Surprisingly, all of my children were up by 8:30.
I have no idea why we haven’t been approached to be a reality show.