The Sleeper

A wholesome breakfast is said to be the best start to the day. I'm not a big breakfast eater. Perhaps I never got used to eating breakfast as a child. It's hard to find time to eat breakfast when you are eight years old and getting yourself and your five year old sister up and off to school in the morning. There was never enough time.

I wish as a child that I was as organized as I now am. Life would have been much easier. Finding clothes, making lunch and brushing your hair take a lot of time if you have not done the preparation the night before. But I was a kid. Eight year olds are not supposed to be burdened with the responsibility of tiptoeing around the dark house each school morning as not to wake their sleeping mother all the while attempting to get to the bus stop on time.

My mom was a sleeper. Always, always sleeping. One would think that with all the sleep she got that she would have more energy than a racehorse at the Kentucky Derby. I guess she didn't agree. What kind of mother allows two little girls to get up, dressed, make their lunches and gather their homework and off to the bus all without assistance, let alone a hug and a good-day farewell? What kind of mother? My mother.

I loved coming home from school every day. Getting off the bus I would take my sister's hand and we would run home. The jubilation we felt was one of freedom. Because, we knew that once home it would mean hand fulls of Fudgeeoo cookies and cartoons for hours. There was no one to tell us we should have fruit instead of cookies or do our homework instead of watching Hercules and Newt. Our only obstacle to freedom was once again, napping in the nearby bedroom. And we were aware that as long as we didn't bother her she would stay in her slumber and shirk her responsibilities for as long as possible. But who cared? We had cookies and cartoons instead of carrot sticks and math problems.

At some point we would wake her from her slumber. We would make her aware that Dad would be home soon and dinner was needed. We would start dinner with the hopes of her appearing to finish it. It was a good day when she joined us in the kitchen and we got to stand beside her hoping for a good word and just relishing her presence. The much needed and anticipated attention we had hungered for all day had finally arrived.

Once sitting at the table, Dad home from work we consumed dinner and all the consideration we could capture from that target audience that were our parents. It was the best part of the day; The only time we felt needed and interesting. We fed our souls as we did our bellies and never wanted it to end. But it did end. My sister and I would clear the table and do the dishes while mom retreated to her Harlequin Romance books and Dad to his workshop.

The day over we made our way to bed hoping for morning to come and pass us by quickly so we could once again hear the screaming of the school bus brakes.