My Mother and Waking Up When It’s Sunny Outside

I woke this morning at five a.m. because I had set my alarm clock. It’s an attempt to learn to wake up at an healthy hour, but I’m afraid that all I’m doing is training myself to sleep through the alarm. And, sleeping through alarms is already a problem and the exact reason why I have this alarm set for an ungodly article.

But I got back to sleep, and slept all the way until nine thirty when the sun glinting off of the snow was blinding me. Even the cats were squinting and blinking rapidly as they readjusted their bodies so that their faces pointed away from the windows. I lay there and drifted in and out of sleep–stuck in that sleep stage where you have crazy dreams about having lunch with Ian Hamilton and J.D. Salinger–until my mother burst into my room. She threw the New Yorker at me so that I could read the Steven Millhauser fiction piece, and she told me that she thought that I wrote like him. Then, I had to get out of bed, so I could do ridiculous victory leaps across my bedroom in my grandmother-like nightgown.

On another note, my mother is in school to become a elementary school teacher because that’s what all normal Midtown attorneys decide to do once they hit 46. It’s amusing to see how she transforms herself the moment she comes into contact with younger children. She suddenly starts smiling and squats down to their level as she reads them a story or ties their shoes. It’s a complete role reversal from how she acts with us older folks. She isn’t obsessive and argumentative with them. Perhaps that’s because the power struggles with eight-year-olds are much more mild than her battles with the rest of us. Don’t get me wrong, though. I love my mother. It’s just that I’m a teenager and she’s my mother, so we’re pretty much obligated to have squabbles.

I was sitting in the Child Study Team office in school over a week ago and talking about her with my case manager (I swear that I’m no delinquent), and he couldn’t understand her decision, either. He, like me, thinks that she’s far too academic for the job. But as I realized when I was eating lunch today, anyone who can parent me certainly does love children and must have an honest-to-God talent for handling them, even if that ability seems unbelievable. After all, I did do things like try to eat newspaper in the middle of a panic attack (before I even knew what panic attacks were) when I was seven, and spend hours and hours doing homework because I was too busy doing back-bends off of the couch or picking up every single small object in the study.

I guess the woman isn’t so awful. I haven’t turned out half-bad, and she thinks that I can actually write well. Even though we might not always get along, I really do love her. And because of my lunch time thinking, I know that she’ll be a great teacher. I’ve prepped her for the worst.

And so ends my first blog post. A ramble-y endeavor that leaves much to be desired. However, for a first attempt, I’ll take it.

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