Routine

I bought her an alarm clock for Christmas. Not just any alarm clock, though, a kind of orb that glows rainbow colors and connects to your iPod so you can wake up to the music of your choice. This is it, I thought, now I’ll finally make her get up on her own and she’ll start to learn responsibility. A promise to her, to myself.

And yet. Here it is March and still I heave myself out of bed, eyes stinging, every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, the first one awake in a silent house. I stumble down the hall, through the cluttered kitchen, and down the brown-carpeted stairs toward her deep and purple den. I dread the next few moments.

“Wake up time!” I chirp obnoxiously, and I gently shake her bundles of blankets. She groans, rolls over, away from the soft turquoise light of the alarm clock that has never been set to alarm. “C’mon, get up! You don’t want to miss band!” Inside I’m ashamed, not wanting to fail her and knowing I am.

I can’t go upstairs and start breakfast or she’ll sink right back down to her dreams. I sit on her bed, bounce her up and down, sing silly songs, start to get stern. Finally she sits, slowly moves her feet to the floor, stands with her eyes closed like a rumpled member of the preteen undead.

We trudge up the stairs together, mother and daughter. I should give her more credit, I chide myself for the hundredth time. Back away, leave her to learn what it’s like to be late. Let her stumble her way into teenager-hood, gain some independence. After all, I had to do it alone.

Shouldn’t I make her do more of it alone?

“Mom, will you brush my hair for me?” she mumbles, and I automatically pick up the brush. Pull it through the tangled ends, fist grasped firmly to hold handfuls away from her sensitive scalp. I don’t want to hurt her.