I felt Dad shoving my shoulder. "Emmy! Get up. Hey, Emmy, I'm talking to you!"
"I know." I mumble, still lost in the land between sleep and 'up'. "You're always talking."
Dad sighs, and leaves me in my bed for a few minutes of sleep. This is my world. Or at least my mornings. I remember 6 years ago, I was up at least 45 minutes than I needed to be, taking my time with my hair, clothes and eating breakfast, because I had time. I would go to bed as soon as my father said so, and up as soon as he would let me.
It's exactly the opposite now.
I guess I don't really have much choice on how late I go to bed. I have activities I do that get me home later, or I'm with my friends. Then there is homework, piles of it, writing and other normal things that keep me up to at least eleven on school nights. When people think of teenagers, it's usually a picture of a lanky kid passed out on the bed, the snooze alarm ringing loud enough to wake the city. We like our sleep. But I think we can all remember a time when we were bouncing off the walls every morning. What I would give to have that again.
I finally get up, bumping into corners on my way down the hall. My Dad is coming out of the bathroom, and smirks at my morning face. "What day is it?" I mutter, rubbing a cramp out of my neck.
"Monday." He says.
"Nooo." I moan. "Monday . . . Are you positive?"
"Positive."
I follow him downstairs, tripping over every other step. Dad is already looking fairly nice. All he had to do was put on his tie, get his briefcase, and he was go. I didn't want to think about what I looked like. He poured some cereal and sat down at the dining room table.
"Do you want something to eat?" My dad asks, taking a bite of his cereal.
"D'you think I should?"
"Yes."
I groan and sit down, my head slamming against the table.
"It's Monday. Are you sure?"
Not all mornings are like that, but you get the general idea. This weeks column isn't actually about sleep either, although it's around midnight and it would be a nice subject to write about right now. Today I'm talking about how we change. It's like one of those things you can't avoid . . . death, taxes, and change. I'm sure there are more. If you have time, you can send me a list.
If you read this every week, then I'm pretty sure you know how easily I stray off subject. I got a mail about that the other day. I'm sorry. There is always so much to say. If I could write 4 of these a week, I would.
It was Christmas night. My whole family was gathered in the living room. It's one of those rare days a year when that happens. Uncle Chad slipped a video into the VCR on the TV, and images flickered onto the screen. Literally. The movie was without a sound, and bad quality. It was of my Dad and his three siblings when they were children. Almost 45 years ago. Instead of sound there were old jazz songs playing, and I saw my father, walking really close to the video camera, his eyes twinkling. They seemed to match the upbeat in the music. I wouldn't have known it was him if Aunt Joyce hadn't pointed out "He was such a devil child. Did I tell you some of the things he used to do to me, Emmy?"
He had changed so much. As the movie played on, Aunt Joyce unraveled stories of my father and Uncle Chad as kids, how horrible they had been. Spraying her with a hose on her way to prom. Walking into the house with all sorts of creatures. Turtles, snakes, spiders and bugs. I looked at Dad grimacing on the other end of the couch. My father? Ha! The conservative lawyer? No way!
The change in all of us from when we are kids is almost unbelievable. Do you remember the time when you dreamed of being an astronaut . . . or superman, whichever opportunity came first? Don't even get me started on looks. It's like we become a different people. We don't wake up one day and find us looking three years older. We don't notice when it's happening, but it always is. Think. We still have the same eyes. Last time I checked, they didn't walk off and become replaced by eyes that are bigger, bluer and brighter. Same legs. Since when did the scrawniness wear off and be replaced by something . . . almost fine to look at?
Change, my friends.
When did I go from the Beatles to Death Cab for Cutie? Not overnight. When did my flat, ugly hair become thick and wavy? Not overnight. If things don't happen overnight, when do they happen?
How we act is so different, too. I can't imagine saying things or acting the way I used to a year ago, not to mention 6!
My mornings are hard enough without Braden whining outside the bathroom every morning while I'm in the shower to hurry up, he's not getting any younger. Right. 5th graders are really judgmental on looks. Juniors? That's a whole other story. I get so mad. But I used to be so worse, actually bursting into the bathroom while my family was in the shower, stealing the towels. So how can I be angry with him, when I did it, too?
Sometimes we change so much, we forget what is like to be at that age, or that period in our lives. When Lauren came home after her first day of 7th grade, I don't even remember listening to her, paying any mind to her tear-stained face. I forgot what it was like, the first day of middle school. How hard and scary and traumatizing it was. But I've changed from that little seventh grader. I can't place my mind into that of a seventh grader. Change has done it's magic. but that doesn't mean I can't listen.
Tomorrow is Saturday. I plan on sleeping in . . . and when I do wake up, I will be bouncing off the walls. Maybe change doesn't have an affect of everything.
Glitsygrl.
