Waking me up most mornings was, as always, a chore for my family. My mother would attempt the feat first by turning on my light and loudly saying my name. She would leave to wake the other children and then come back, noticing that I hadn't stirred. She would sometimes come sit on my bed and talk to me, helping me wake up an easier, gentler way. But the frustration in her voice told me that that's not what she had in mind today.
My father would be next. His ways of waking me were a bit more creative; he would come in, making his best impression of an alarm clock and shake me. It was hard to tell what Dad would really do, for it was different each time. This morning, I was brutally awakened by nearly rolling clean from the mattress as my father grabbed it and began to tip it. “Titanic! Titanic!” He screamed, “We're going overboard!”
I found that with each attempt at waking me, I would get more angry and, thus, retaliate by staying in bed. I would wake up to my mother merely opening my door, but because of their creativity in waking me, I would angrily stay “asleep”.
My father's next brilliant thought was voiced to my younger brother. “Go get the dog,” he said.
Oh, no, I thought bitterly. You try that one and I'll make sure I stay in bed until tomorrow morning. Not that I could do that. I wanted so badly to get out of bed right this moment, but that would be surrendering to the criminal master mind! That was not to happen.
I never heard Chewy's collar, but I did feel cold water drip onto my cheek and flow slowly into my ear. I could hear at least half of my siblings in my room now, and they were laughing and saying, “Oh, sick, Chewy!”
I waved the washcloth—or whatever it was—away and muttered, “Yeah, yeah. You guys are funny.”
When they felt that the fun was over and it was truly time to greet the day, they would leave my room and say, “C'mon, Jessica, time to get up.” It was when every single one of them had disappeared that I would kick away the blankets and make the journey to the bathroom.
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