Moms have a responsibility to teach their young ‘uns a few safety rules.
- Look both ways before you cross the street.
- Never take candy from a stranger.
- Wait 30 minutes after eating before you resume swimming.
- Wash your hands.
- Never, ever wake a sleeping mama.
Break any of these rules, and you risk life and limb.
Which, apparently, I need to emphasize a little more emphatically.
As previously stated, we survived the whirlwind that is the end of school. I don’t remember much about it, but I’m still here, and my kids are still alive, so I guess that means we survived. Every year, following the survival, we sleep. More specifically, I sleep. I don’t set an alarm, I wake up when I wake up, and most days I lay in my bed until I feel like getting up. About thirty minutes or so. It’s how I roll. I thought I had made that crystal clear.
I love my bed. I really, really, REALLY love my bed.
So I didn’t think much about my charming, mop-headed 9 year old’s announcement that he “has a great surprise for me tomorrow morning.”
Late in the day, he was invited to spend the night with a friend. Which turned out to be most fortuitous for him. Otherwise he might be dead, and I might be in jail.
I fell into my most comfortable, comforting, luxuriously soft and cozy bed about 11:00 that night. Have I mentioned how much I love my bed? Especially when I can stay in it for a glorious nine hours.
Except when my punk son sets the alarm on my phone to go off at 6:00 a.m.
When I heard the evil electronic jingle-jangle, I jumped out of bed and immediately knew the culprit. Punk.
I trudged through my fog and stomped up the stairs, making a beeline for his room. I flipped on the light, stared at his empty bed, and snarled, “WHERE ARE YOU?”
Oh. Right. He’s sleeping over. Lucky for him.
I never really went back to sleep. I sort of rested, but I had to get up by 8:30 to let the drywall guy inside to repair the hole in the wall caused by a runaway mini-fridge.
That’s another story.
Friend’s mom called about the same time and wanted to know if The Punk could stay and play for the day.
“Um, no. I need him to come home right now.”
A few minutes later, he walks in the door with this half grin-half smirk on his face.
He really thought I thought he was funny. That waking up at 6:00 am on the second day of summer vacation was funny.
He was grossly mistaken.
To my credit, I didn’t yell. I didn’t scream. I didn’t hang him upside down and slowly rip off his fingernails. But I did let him know in no uncertain terms that he had made a HUGE mistake.
“You know what happens when I wake up early? I don’t get enough sleep. And when I’m sleepy? I’m EXTREMELY grumpy. Clearly you did not think this through. Please go to your room and don’t come out.”
Amidst his astounded disbelief and stunned protestations, he managed to make it to his room. He came down about thirty minutes later.
“I know how to make it up to you, Mom. I’ll stay up tonight and watch the entire Mavericks game…”(um, there better be a second part to this plan) “and then I’ll set my alarm for 5:00 a.m.”
No, I told him. That will do no good for either of us. That will only make you tired and grumpy, which will make me even more grumpy. Go back to your room.
He came back down after another thirty minutes with Plan B.
“I’ll wash all the dishes today and make lunch for everyone.”
OK. Sounds good to me. Now go back to your room. I’m not quite ready to look at you yet.
Michael called later in the day, and Griffin answered the phone. “Mom’s really mad,” he told his dad. “She can’t take a joke.”
“Son,” my dearest soulmate promptly replied, “you obviously don’t know your mother very well.”
My punk baby brother thought the whole thing was hilarious. Probably because it’s precisely the kind of prank he would have pulled when he was nine. Or thirty-two.
(I can’t be too mad at him, though, especially since he & his beautiful bride just produced this:)
(I’m so in love. I bet she’ll NEVER wake up her mama at 6:00 am during summer vacation.)
(But I kinda hope she wakes up her dad.)
And just in case you are thinking that I need to lighten up and forgive my son and get a sense of humor…rest assured, Griffin and I made up and both apologized. (Never mind that it took me about twelve hours to get over it enough to apologize.) It’s almost funny now. Almost. But not quite. And if he wants to live to see age ten, he should never EVER do that again.
Along with taking candy from a stranger across the street before swimming without washing your hands.