By Clara Fields
Originally Published: June 11, 2015
It’s 6 a.m. and I groggily rise from a restless night’s sleep to rouse my daughter for school, a ritual I’ve followed since her kindergarten days. The bright light spilling from under her door signals that she’s pulled an all-nighter, likely finishing up a French paper that should have been started days ago. As she navigates her senior year of high school, I worry about how she will manage in college. I got through it, so I suppose she will too.
Cautiously, I open her door, greeted by the harsh glare of light illuminating her room. I call her name, my tone laced with uncertainty, and make my way downstairs. Perhaps she’s in the shower? My frantic search reveals no signs of life. Did she have some sort of breakdown? Is she out running through the frostbitten cornfield? Thoughts like these race through my mind; this year has been challenging for her—and for me as well.
Holding my breath, I return to her room. A childhood blanket lays across her bed, reminding me of simpler times. I approach slowly, dread gripping my heart, and lift the blanket. The headline flashes in my mind: “Local Teenager Dies Writing French Paper.” I’ve been a single mom for too long; menopause doesn’t help either. These are the absurd thoughts I entertain at this early hour, and maybe I’m the one who needs to run naked through the cornfield. The thought brings a smirk, though I fear the neighbors might call the police. Still, the notion isn’t entirely unappealing.
As I lift the blanket, I find her curled up in yesterday’s clothes, lying sideways on the bed. I reach out and touch her head, feeling a mix of embarrassment and gratitude that she can’t read my mind.
My gaze fixes on her rhythmic breathing, her shoulder rising and falling like waves approaching the shore. It reminds me of the countless hours I spent at her crib, ensuring she was still with me. That longing resurfaces—I want to freeze this moment, to hold onto it forever.
I glance at the clock and know it’s time to wake her. Hesitation washes over me; I know what’s next. She’ll whine, she’ll complain, throwing a typical adolescent tantrum about wanting to skip school. She knows my weakness all too well. As my only child, she’ll be off to college next year, and I can already imagine her sleeping late into the afternoon. I’ll find myself peeking into her room periodically, just to watch her.
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In summary, waking my daughter in the morning is an emotional journey filled with nostalgia and concern. As she transitions into adulthood, I grapple with the bittersweet nature of parenting.