January 20, 2011
6.19 am.
That's when I woke up.
Confused.
Concerned.
No alarm.
More specifically, no 5.30 alarm.
The one needed to begin the long and painful process of waking Em and getting her out of bed in the morning.
Hmmmmmm. . .
Up.
Lights on.
Stephen mumbling his early morning version of "What the f***?!?!?!?!?!?!?"
Alarm clock check revealed it was set for the right time.
It was on radio.
The problem.
Stephen's early morning fumbling attempts to rid his consciousness of Katy Perry wailing Firework, a sound that resembles shooting nails into his head from a close range nail gun, resulted in not turning down the sound, nor properly turning off the alarm.
He fixes on the first knob or dial he can get his hands on while operating at even less than minimum capacity.
And yesterday morning that happened to be the knob that changes the radio station.
Preferably away from 106.9 to something with no noise at all.
Which is what he did.
For some unknown reason, probably my own lack of awareness, when I was setting the alarm clock last evening and engaging in my pre-bed, standard radio routine, I failed to check that the radio was actually set on a radio station and not the soothing sounds of static-that-can't-be-heard-over-his-snoring.
Silly me.
So while the alarm did go off, and it was on the radio setting, it wasn't actually set to a radio station.
Consequently, no Katy Perry or Pink, but an almost imperceptible static that apparently cannot be heard over the wholly obnoxious wretchedness of Stephen's snoring.
Of course, panic filled me at the prospect of being late, and in my less than kind enquires regarding what happened to the alarm, all I got was a not even semi-conscious mumble, "I dunno know. . . .wasssn't me. . . ."
Must have been those evil early morning gnomes again, then.
Stephen would much prefer the soft and subdued sounds of CBC in the early morning.
Me, too.
Unfortunately, CBC radio does not give me that early morning jolt needed to penetrate my sleep addled brain which forces me to open my eyes and remember that it is, indeed, again, time to fight with Em to get out of bed.
CBC doesn't register above oh-there-is-classical-music-in-my-dream-how-lovely.
Hence why I insist on having my sounds of almost-silence broken by contemporary pop music.
In fairness to Stephen, I don't think he is even remotely aware of how loud he snores.
Working early one morning in our office, which happens to be in the room beside our bedroom, I was entertained with the sounds of snoring wafting from our room.
Okay. . .wafting sounds too nice. . . .let's try thrusting and pushing their way out of room.
In a brief moment of reprieve, Em wanders into the office and sits the trunk beside my desk, head wrapped in a towel, body warm and cozy in her housecoat, to begin her usual morning attempt to avail me of her reasons for why she should not have to go to school today.
Mid-sentence she is interrupted by a freight train carrying 500 cars like sounds of Stephen snoring.
She stopped.
Looked at me.
And said, "how do you get any sleep?"
"Practice", I replied, "melatonin, and making sure I am so thoroughly exhausted by the end of the day that almost nothing could wake me."
To this day I am amazed that he has never woke himself up, or awakened in the morning with nasal and throat pain that would fell a herd of elephants.
He never has.
Ever.
At least to my knowledge.
I'm very much a creature of habit.
Waking on time is a critical part of my day.
The most critical part.
Setting the tone for the day ahead.
The tone of today isn't sitting well.
Coupled with an even more vociferous than usual complaining from Em about not wanting to go to school.
There may be something to that.
Keith has been sick since Sunday.
Coughing, fever, headaches, stuffiness. . .the typical melange of ailments that befall him when he is ill.
It is not outside the realm of believability that Em, too, would be experiencing the early warning signs of such ailments.
However, given her schedule for today and her penchant for expending beaucoup de energie each morning in her vain attempt to convince me to let her stay home, I find it much harder to discern whether or not Em is, indeed, sick.
Or, if she is hoping Keith is sick enough to cajole me into thinking she could possibly be ill.
I always feel like I've been placed, not so gently either, between a rock and a hard place.
Is she sick?
Or. . .
Is she wanting to stay home because she so despises high school that she would do anything, perhaps even maim herself, as a means of ensuring she can, indeed, stay home?
Snow days don't help.
She luxuriated and lounged at home yesterday, in her pjs all day, watching movies and consorting with her sick and ailing brother, basking in the almost unconditional love of her feline friend, Reilley.
So naturally the shock of going to school is difficult to bear.
The compromise: go to school until lunch and if you're still not feeling better, you can come home.
Which is, of course, predicated on the assumption that I'll answer the phone when she calls.
I am not optimistic about the rest of this day.
Not.
At.
All.
Because in addition to being a creature of habit, I may be somewhat, just a little, superstitious.
Knowing that a day that doesn't start well can easily become a day that doesn't treat me kindly.
Leaving me wanting to stay home in my office, sitting in my chair, not moving from my computer to even prepare sustenance for fear of cutting off an appendage.
Let alone traverse outside the house into the harsh, cruel world.
But here I go.
Wish me luck.
Or send me brandy to assist in my post-day recovery this evening.
I have a feeling I'm going to need it.
Title Lyric: Heart Attack by Sum 41
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