When my wife wakes up my 9 year old son in the middle of our bed. She uses the voice of a tiny mouse fairy. “Hey lil’ guy…time to wake up….can I get a good morning hug?” He usually squirms around a bit and slowly opens his eyes and gives her a sleepy warm embrace.
If I’m still in bed after a few minutes, trying to sneak in a few more moments of rest, the clunking and clattering of the movement in the house seems to get louder and louder. Then, I hear this same woman, who just minutes ago, had the voice of an angel stirring my precious child to conscienceness, use the voice of a stern, annoyed, and disgruntled 1970’s newscaster, who just overdosed on coffee and cigarettes, to motivate me to start my day. “It’s almost Nine,…… are you working today?”
As if to suggest I only work when I damn well feel like it. As if I am a worthless and lazy bed squatter. Also as if she has never slept late, or woke up groggy and tired, in her entire life.

Where is my little mouse fairy, rubbing my back softly and caringly to wake me up? What happened to her to make her treat me like an unmotivated, smelly, grossly overweight, punk kid at summer camp with dishwashing  duty? Would waking me up with sarcasm and dissapointment inspire me to approach the day with a successful outlook?

So, I get up, get some coffee, watch the news, and wait for them to leave, …..so I can go back to bed.