When I was a kid, I hated getting up to go to school. I mean, I actually liked to go to school, but I hated the waking up part. We had to get up at 5:30, when it was still dark outside. We lived thirty minutes away from our school, and there were four of us – so I get it. I hated it, but I get it.
There were two unsuccessful methods used to rouse me from my bed. The first, and the worst, thankfully did not happen often. My dad would get two pots, turn on the overhead light, and bang the pots together, singing, “Get out of that bed! Rattle them pots and pans!” until I screamed in anger. Mission accomplished. I was, indeed, awake.
The second method was employed by my older brother, who would simply wrap me up in my comforter and drag me to the breakfast table. I would wake up on the floor by my chair. Everyone would be eating, and not paying the least attention to me. Very disorienting.
To my father and brother, perhaps these modes worked, in that I actually did get out of the bed and get to the table. But I was in one foul mood. My oldest child can totally relate.
Getting him up is nowhere near as tough, but most days he totally rebels against it. He whines, he fusses, he attempts to hide under his bedclothes (while I or my husband are pulling them off him like a Band-Aid) – and then he eventually quits moping and starts bouncing around like a jackhammer.
Despite all our planning, our mornings seem to be really rushed. And yet I dread the day when the kids are supposed to get themselves up and moving. Good Lord. They may still be in bed when schools is over!