6:58 a.m. and I’m sleeping soundly (at least I’m pretty sure I am, because I’m not awake yet).
7:05 a.m. – bedroom door flies open and hits the wall – whack. Light is flicked on – click. Child yells, “HEY MOM, look at my hair! Just look at it!”
I roll over to inspect the calamity. Yeah, that’s nice. So, you don’t have your Mom’s crazy ass curly hair and you don’t have your aunt’s straight ass boring hair; what you’ve got, my dear, is something in between, which often looks like someone plopped a mop on your head in the middle of the night. Terrific. Now, go get ready for school and let me get back to my slumber.
That is how the scene plays out, but what I’m really saying in my head is “I’m gonna throttle you if you wake me up like this one more time!” It’s the same scene, different day. Oh, and by the way, thanks for waking me up 45 minutes early. Thanks, just thanks. Grrrrrr. I hate morning.