If you’re reading this, you woke up today.
If you’re reading this, but didn’t wake up, please contact me immediately. I’d like to ghostwrite your best seller.
Waking up has changed since our childhood years. Do you remember when you and Teddy jumped on your parents’ bed to help them celebrate morning?
Later, Mom wreaked vengeance by dragging us out of bed for school, scrubbing our ears and necks before we escaped her clutches.
People have been awakening us ever since.
At college, I assumed I would decree my wake-up time. My dorm, however, housed 500 girls, all armed with high-voltage stereos and supersonic hairdryers. Exercise classes met outside my room — at 1 a.m.
Those years prepared me for apartment life.
“Someday, I’ll own my own house,” I said. “No more party animals. No more percussion teachers upstairs.”
My husband and I did buy a house — and filled it with babies, aka, screaming meanies allergic to sleep. Especially ours.
Not content with that, Hubby delivered babies — and took care of sick people. I frequently awoke to discussions of blood sugar readings and stool reports. And advice on how to kick insomnia.
Occasionally, I slept through his wee-hour departures. His returns? Not so much. Most sleepers might awaken if a shadowy guy joined them in bed at 2 a.m. — particularly if his body temperature equaled an arctic seal’s. If he was tall, thin, and bearded, though, I turned over and dozed off. If short, fat, and/or clean-shaven — Houston, we had a problem.
While Hubby cannot claim my levels of martyrdom, he occasionally lets me awaken him for less compelling reasons, e.g., suspicious sounds in the laundry room at 4:30 a.m. I demanded he defend our dirty socks with his life.
One night, in a hotel room, I awoke, convinced Communists were monitoring us through the sprinkling system.
He also insists my snoring awakens him, but he’s upping my stats so his don’t look bad.
However, neither of us will ever achieve my brother’s dastardly wake-up call. During a solo visit, he had buttered me up with a wonderful meal, fascinating tales of his Middle Eastern service, and (!) chocolates. Such behavior should have roused deepest suspicions. Instead, I thought he finally had grown up.
That night, I savored dreamless sleep — until the enormous clock in my room lit up like a carnival ride. An Arab voice belted out a call to prayer that probably awakened Atlanta.
I thought Judgment Day had arrived.
Eventually, I realized it had not yet come for me. But Judgment Day came for him.
Little Brother, if you’re reading this, my offer to ghostwrite your best seller still stands.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What is your least favorite way to wake up?
Many years ago (before kids) when I was still in my right, or what was left of my mind, Dave and I borrowed a camper and headed north. We stopped for a visit to my farmer uncle and aunt’s house, who like most farmers had many animals. Among them of course were chickens. We went to bed late in our pop-out bed in our pop-up camper exhausted from our card games and laughter. The bed was comfy and the night was quiet. Until about 3 am when my aunts favorite rooster decided that the yard light was the sun coming up and he paraded back and forth UNDER our bed and crowed at least every hour until the real sun came up. I never prayed so hard for weasels and foxes and any other chicken eater to attack and put the poor blind thing out of its misery. Cause I sure wanted to.
Poor Dori and Dave! Maybe you should have tried my dad’s solution to their most obnoxious rooster:’s wee-hour alarm: he stuck his cup of coffee out the window and poured it on the noisy bird–who never crowed under their window again! (It was either that or inviting the irritating fowl to Sunday dinner.)
Thanks for your comment, and hope your nights are now quiet, with your days full of smiles 🙂