On Sleeping Late

When my brother and I were teenagers and my mother wanted to rouse us from our beds on a Saturday morning she would empty the dishwasher—loudly. She would raise the basket of utensils at least 18 inches off of the countertop, flip it upside down, and all the silverwear would clank down in a shower of cacophony. My brother and I never slept past 9 or 10 o’clock in the morning. It was physically impossible. Because if the dishwasher didn’t rattle your brain enough the vacuum cleaner certainly would.

A few days before Christmas I dropped off a gift for my neighbors across the street. The husband answered the bell.  He asked me which of my children had arrived home for the holidays. And then he told me that that 3 of his children were still sleeping upstairs at his house. It was already 10:30 am. He expected them to remain in their sleep coma until at least 1 pm.

Aside from the trail of coats, the toothpaste congealed in the bathroom sink, the blow dryer and flattener hanging from their cords in the bathroom, the crumbs on the countertop, the dirty cereal bowls on the computer desk, and the shoes and empty water glasses in every room (on all three floors and in the basement), the single most annoying thing about having college (and post college)  kids home is dealing with their unconventional sleep cycle. Because even if they do not go out at night, their day still begins in the pm of the day. Breakfast always begins at lunchtime. My day is half over before theirs even begins.

And I permit all those little annoyances including the extended sleep cycle to proceed without my intervention. Because I still haven’t recovered from the trauma of the silverware clanking on the countertop from my youth. So in good conscience I cannot inflict a similar torment on my own progeny-- I allow them to sleep. Because as messy and as off-schedule as my house is, it will return to its normal state once they depart. And my house and time-clock will be no worse for the wear. It’s just a house and an appointment book—not an animate being. And just like a forgotten toothache I will fail to recall the agony of the disruption once they are gone. I will remember only the joy of time well spent, and I will look forward to their next visit when the cycle begins all over again---assuming I am lucky enough-- and they still want to come visit.