I need five more minutes. Or coffee.
It’s early. Really early. Coffee’s not even finished yet. Please don’t talk to me. I want to go back to bed, but that’s just not in the cards for me today. Ugh.
I’ve not been sleeping well, so I’ve been a little lazy recently. My husband sets his alarm for “before-the-stinkin’-rooster” and goes out for a run, carefully resetting the alarm to give me another half an hour of sleep. 39 minutes, if I decide to hit snooze. And there I was yesterday at the sound of the alarm, stumbling out of bed, tripping over shoes, trying not to brain myself on the dresser because we decided it would be ever-so-smart to put the alarm clock on the other side of the room. There was no question that it was a “snooze” day. I reached out my well-trained alarm-stopper to smack the snooze bar, only to discover IT WASN’T THERE!
I thought I wad having a dream at first, a bad one. Like needing to potty and can’t find a toilet, but noisier. If I don’t get the alarm off in time, the baby is wide awake, and that blessed nine more minutes’ shut eye is out the window. I smacked around on the top of the clock in desperation, thinking that the magic button was playing a trick on me. If I hit it hard enough, it would reappear with a big “SURPRISE!” Where was the frickin’ button? Was it my husband’s new running partner? WHERE DID THAT BUTTON GO?”!
I hit it just right, it seems. Because the radio came out. Loudly. Very, very, very loudly. And it only goes off WHEN YOU PUSH THE SNOOZE BUTTON! Squish snorted and turned over in his crib over in the corner. Even in my sleep deprived state, I realized if I gave in to my deepest desire and pounded the stupid alarm into a pile of dust with a hammer, I would probably wake the baby. So I did what I had to do. I unplugged the whole clock. Standing there with cord in hand, I realized I had just kissed my extra bit of sleep goodbye. As if I could sleep after that trauma anyway.
My husband admitted later that the clock had broken on him that morning. I feel very let down now. Alarm clocks shouldn’t break. And that one was special. It had been his grandmother’s. If a clock can’t handle 25 years of someone beating on it every morning (sometimes 3 or 4 times a morning), they just shouldn’t sell it at Wal-mart. That sucker should have lasted until retirement. I am bitter.
I forgot about the stupid clock until last night before bed. My husband had replaced it with a different model that he had bought for his office. I took an instant dislike to it. No more softly glowing red numbers. These puppies are fluorescent green and are so bright the bedroom looks like a landing strip. And it doesn’t sound like our old alarm. Instead of a gentle “beep-beep-beep” at middle C, I woke thinking someone was stepping on a bag of cats.
I don’t know where any of the buttons are. I can’t turn on the radio or set the time. But I will have to learn it all fast. I’ll have the kids help me run some snooze drills today until I know that clock so well I can work it in my sleep. Because that’s the actual point.
But look at me. It’s just now shower-time, and I am finished writing for the day. Look at me being all productive and stuff! Rather than beat on the new clock this morning, I decided to go ahead and start my day. Rather than hitting snooze, I just turned the thing off. At least, I think that’s what I did. I guess I’ll know in a few minutes!