As the clock strikes 6 a.m., I groggily rise from a restless night’s sleep to awaken my daughter for school—an action that has become a daily routine since her early school days. A bright glow spills from the gap beneath her door, a clear indication that she has once again pulled an all-nighter, likely working on her French paper, which she should have started much earlier. She’s still in high school, and the thought crosses my mind: how will she manage college? I got through it, so I can only hope she will too.
With a creaking door, I enter her room, only to be greeted by an overwhelming brightness. I call out her name, half-heartedly questioning her whereabouts as I head down the stairs. Perhaps she’s in the shower; however, my frantic search yields no signs of life. Could she have just vanished? Imagining her running through the frosty cornfield, stark naked, sends a wave of anxiety through me. This year has been challenging for her—and for me as well.
Taking a deep breath, I return to her room. A well-loved blanket from her childhood lies crumpled on the bed. I approach cautiously, fear gripping me as I reach out to touch it. I can almost envision the headlines: “Local Teenager Dies While Writing French Paper.” It’s a thought that lingers too long; perhaps it’s been too many years as a single mother. Menopause certainly doesn’t help. At 6 a.m., these are the musings that dance in my mind. Maybe what I really need is a brisk run through the cornfield—though the thought brings a chuckle, I fear my neighbors might not appreciate it.
I lift the blanket gently and find her curled up in yesterday’s clothes, lying sideways on the bed. I touch her head, and once again, the grim headline flashes in my mind. Standing beside my teenage daughter, I feel a wave of embarrassment wash over me from the silliness of my thoughts, and I am thankful she cannot read my mind.
My gaze shifts to her chest, rising and falling rhythmically, reminiscent of the countless hours I spent by her crib, ensuring she was still breathing. A deep longing wells up inside me; I wish I could freeze this moment in time, to hold onto it forever.
I glance at the clock again, sensing it’s time to wake her. I hesitate. I know what lies ahead—her inevitable whining, the adolescent tantrums, the pleas to stay home. She’s aware of my weaknesses. As my only child, the reality of her heading off to college next year looms over me. So, perhaps she will stay home today, sleeping well into the afternoon. And I’ll find myself peering into her room, soaking in the sight of her.
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In summary, mornings can be a struggle as our kids transition from childhood to adulthood, but these moments are precious. Embracing both the chaos and the quiet is vital in the parenting journey.
Keyphrase: Parenting reflections at dawn
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