Is It Really The Weekend If I Can't Sleep Late?

A stay-at-home dude with a grudge.

Jealousy is a horrifying monster. I mention this mostly because I want you dudes to understand that I know what I'm doing isn't a nice thing. Or even a good thing. Or even a passable-if-you-look-at-a-certain-way-and-you've-been-drinking-heavily thing. It is a bad thing. But I just cannot help myself.

This morning, when it still was dark out, my alarm went off and I did the same thing I do every single morning when the alarm goes off. I promptly ignored it until my wife, known to me as She Who Must Be Preparing To Use Her Nails As Talons, took matters into her own feet and savagely slashed at my shins with her incredibly sharp toena–

Ow! Erm. I mean. . . Uh. . . 

Until my wife, known to me now as She Who Must Be Vewy Vewy Quiet Because She's Sneaking Up On Me, lovingly reached out and gently nudged me awake with all the kindness and gentility one would expect from such a fine, loving, and, most importantly, forgiving woman.

Mumbling my profuse thanks, I stumbled out of bed, slammed my knee on the bedside table, cursed softly but vehemently, slammed the crown of my head into the door knob, more cursing, stumbled through the door and closed it. Then I promptly collapsed into a puddle of pain on the floor and wept quietly until I could get myself under control.

Eventually, I pulled myself from the Pit of Despair and trekked upstairs. . . To where my victi– Er Spawn of My Loins, my Youngest Dude, my Hyper Lad lay snoozing in his bed, oblivious to the world. Something he would come to regret very, very soon.

You see, I am a dude who holds a grudge. While others see this as obsession mixed with paranoia and a more-than-healthy-dose of narcissism, I understand it to be a healthy ability to remember having been wronged coupled with a desire for justice to be restored.

And, oh, my friends, oh there was much justice needing to be restored.

When I was younger, a mere stripling of a dude, I was the type to sleep late. Oh, so very late. It was wonderful. 

My first job, as a general assignment reporter for the Florida TODAY newspaper in Melbourne, Fla., my primary shift had me working from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. Which meant I could stay up until 1 a.m., sleep eight hours and still get in to work on time. It was tremendous. And, on my weekends (which, because I was a reporter, consisted of Sunday and Monday), I slept in very, very late after staying up very, very late the night before.

Eventually, I began to change this sort of behavior, especially once I kept being awakened by the hate rays generated by the eyes of my beloved affianced. So, yes, I began to get up earlier.

But nothing prepared me for becoming a dad, dudes. Nothing. 

I mean, it was like those young Spawn of Our Loins couldn't read a clock or something. They'd get up at 5 am or 6 am for no reason! And they'd be all happy and gurgling and excited. . . 

Horrifying. Especially when the only thing you want to see is the inside of your eyelids.

And if you didn't immediately attend to their needs, they started screaming and yelling and crying and, well. . . That sort of thing made it really hard to go back to sleep, especially once a certain someone was up and glaring again.

Crying babies trump desire for sleepy time for dad. I'd get up and zombie walk them into the living room, change diapers, feed them and wonder why I'd never picked up the habit of drinking coffee.

Once done with the changing and the feeding and the changing again, I'd usually take a look at the clock, thinking most of the morning had surely gone past by then and it was time for me to take a nap. . . Only to find that it still was 6:15 am or some appalling hour like that. And the young Spawn still was laughing and gurgling and wanting me to play with him.

It was hard. . . Oh, so very hard. . . Not being angry. . . Staying happy to see the little Spawn. . . Playing in a way that didn't include introducing the little Spawn to high-velocity wall-impact training. . .

But I did it. I made it through. I was able to be a good (ish. Goodish) dad to my early risers.

Fast forward far too many years and my youngest Spawn hits his teenage years and begins to see sleeping in late on the weekends to be a right granted to him by a ruler from on high, and I don't mean his mother.

Last weekend, he slept until 4. No, not 4 am. 4 pm. Had I been paying attention, I'm not sure I would have let it go on that long because, well, I'm a dad and that's what we do. Instead, because I was busy around the house and in general getting things done, I didn't notice that he still slept.

Eventually, I wound down my work and sat in my comfy recliner. Just about the time the youngest Spawn strolled down the stairs, not even bothering to hide the huge yawn behind his fist. He asked why I was sitting down looking exhausted. I mentioned that I'd been up since 8 am working around the house and in general getting things done.

He sneered at me. Sneered. Then said something about how he hoped he died before he got old so he wouldn't have to be so decrepit. And he actually meant it. Astonished, I watched him stomp to the kitchen and then get snarky because he couldn't find anything "good" to eat for breakfast.

His morning went downhill from there and ended up somewhere near the vicinity of my fingers having to be pried away from around his neck. After much coaxing, I let it go. I also let him go. He, of course, completely forgot about it. Just another example of why he wanted to sleep around the clock, so he wouldn't have to deal with idiots so much.

I, however, did not forget. In fact, I remembered much more than he might think healthy.

One thing I remembered was how to freeze water so it became ice. And how, if you put said ice in a big bucket filled with water, the water in the bucket will become cold.

I also remembered a little thing called gravity, and how, if you tip a bucket full of cold water and ice over on its side while holding said bucket about a foot and a half above the head of a certain young Spawn, the icy cold water will make a gravity-assisted smack into the Spawn's sleeping face.

Turns out, my memory was, indeed, correct. As all of those things happened.

Immediately followed by wide-open eyes, screaming mouth and thrashing body all looking around for something on which to vent. . . And finding nothing save my rapidly retreating back and the fading sound of hysterical laughter ringing out through the house.

Well, and one more thing. Buzz, The Garbage Disposal That Walks Like A Dog, lapping up the water off the Spawn's bedsheets. 

All of this goes to show a very important lesson: Sleeping late is something you gotta earn and never take for granted.

At least not in my house.

And the fact that now I'm going to have to sleep locked in my bedroom for a while. . . Well, that's a small price to pay for such satisfaction.