Natalie Whatley

Here at the Whatley Estate, we’ve been decking the halls with boughs of holly because ‘tis the season to be jolly. Oh, what the heck, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la! Wow. I sing so much more beautifully in print.

As you all know, I quite purposely became a slacker in the holiday-decorating regard after many years of going way overboard both inside and out. And it was without cheer in my heart that I spent weeks after the big day carefully packing and putting away.

Did my home’s occupants even notice how it all went up and then back down, or have a clue why I wore a frown? I thought not.

Two scaled-back, far-easier-on-me seasons passed and truth be told, I was fine with it. Pleased as holiday punch. Life in the new, less-is-more era was good.

BUT. You knew there was going to be a “but”, didn’t you? Parental guilt. It makes us do nostalgic and other insane things.

How were Jeff and I to refuse when faced with, “You know this could be one of my last Christmases at home.” (That same cherub used similar logic last spring break to score a week-long family trip to sunny Orlando, Florida. I think he just wanted to check out the Minnie Mice, but I digress.) Anyway, my spine slipped completely from my body.

So, out from the deep recesses of the Whatley Estate’s belly came boxes left undisturbed for nearly three years.

I did have some backbone and told darling cherubs and their daddy that I would not touch, or hang, a single strand of outdoor Christmas lights. Sounds harsh (bah humbug!), I know, but you must understand that Jeff can’t (finds it physically impossible) hang a few lights . . . more to the tune of about 10,000. You know I wouldn’t exaggerate.

I have awakened some nights to the sounds of hovering aircraft mistaking it all for a place to land. And then there’s the minor detail of not being able to run a hairdryer upstairs while the “display” is lit . . .  trips the breaker. Get the picture? 

My thinking was that if I left cherubs to put in the hard outdoor labor, they’d determine it was all too much work. Not for the first time, I was wrong. Guess who will not go outside and direct air traffic with wet hair?

For the most part I ignored my outdoor workers, refused to be sucked into that bit of madness I’d easily given up. Oblivion to non-working strings of lights, blown fuses, and the disposition of the individual tending to same is a beautiful thing.

 Wearing blinders, I’d occasionally step out and at least offer food and drink – wanted them to remain strong enough to finish what they’d started.

But the highlight came when after hearing oldest cherub’s name called by an excited-sounding, way- up-in-the-air Jeff. 

“Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutter and threw up the sash!”

“When what to my wondering eyes should appear” but a man whose ladder had fallen, he was bear-hugging a tree, holding on to life and unbroken limbs (tree and body) so dear.

And oldest cherub so lively and quick ran to the scene . . . it was pure slapstick.

After a fleeting moment of horror and then the viewing of things quickly turning out OK, I lost it in a fit of hysterical laughter.

I even acted surprised when the story was later relayed with great fanfare.

“Dad fell out of the tree, but had the presence of mind to grab the trunk on the way down? You don’t say.”

I think they were disappointed over eliciting only a slight giggle from me.

I never told them I saw it all go down and laughed myself to tears and stomach cramps.

Yule keep this between us, right?

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

First, I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving and that those of you who braved Black Friday made it home in one piece with your booty.

By the time this meets up with your eyeballs, I will have face-planted—hopefully somewhere soft.

My bed would be ideal. And if I could get away with pulling the covers over my head and staying there until December 26, I would.

I’m not sure how I made it nearly 41 years without cooking and playing hostess with the mostest for Thanksgiving, but my turn in the oven finally arrived.

I’m writing to you under more than slight duress and a mere 48 hours away from T-Day (my kitchen and cookbooks are holding me hostage) as I think of everything that needs doing and how most of it can’t be done until the last minute.

My apron goes off to all you ladies (and gents) who have pulled turkey and fixings out of the hat year after year.

I was ready to throw in the dish-drying towel after the shopping alone.

Who knew this genteel lady would unleash some not-so-nice feistiness over the last-on-the shelf bag of pecan halves? Just kidding. Maybe.

 Instead of rudeness and outwardly pointed elbows I used stealth and cunning—took advantage of females who decided center-aisle was the place to discuss the finer points of pecan pies. They never saw me, but one was certain she saw a bag on the shelf.

 “Where did it go?”

I snickered as me, pecan halves, and my ninja-like ways strolled away to the tune of Andy Williams’ “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year”.

Then, true to form, I giggled some more and started tinkering with Andy’s lyrics . . .  right inside the local Wal-Mart where holiday cheer is on ample display—if not in human behavior, at least in décor and merchandise.

Be forewarned: I’m the Grinch and Ebenezer Scrooge all rolled into one when it comes to the consumer madness the holidays have become. In the great words of Cindy Lou Who (of “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas” fame), “Everyone seems too kerbabbled. Isn’t this just a little superfluous?” Smart girl. Bah humbug!

It’s the most plunderful time of the year/ With kids single yelling and everyone telling you not to sneer/ It’s the most plunderful time on this sphere!

It’s the snap – snappiest treason to enthrall/ With those night and day bleatings/ And way sappy meetings with friends at the mall/It’s the snap snappiest treason to enthrall!

There be parties for boasting/Some bellows for hosting/ And too much too and fro/ There be nary proper glory to the long ago story/ Because we gave it the heave-ho . . .

It’s the most plunderful time of the year/There be much overflowing/And smarts not a showing/ When pocketbooks are steered/ It’s the most plunderful time on this sphere!

I hope you got a chuckle out of my rendition. It’s all in jest. Maybe.  

You all go ahead and stop center-aisle and catch up on the past five years. If your item disappears from one glance to the next know that stealthy ninjas are most plunderful. And if you hear the whistling of a catchy Christmas tune, it’s not me. Maybe.  

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

What follows will not be a tasty treatise on the finer points of pie making just in time for your holiday baking, but rather an illustration of how I can’t cut it when it comes to proper slicing.

It’s  not often a mom gets the chance to play life-like cops and robbers with her son, especially when said son is almost grown and is trying to carve out some pieces of life that don’t include his mommy. Luckily I fall very loosely into the football-girls-car trifecta in that I watch him play, am female, and own a car used a great deal to motor him around until his big, happy, driver’s license day arrives. Otherwise, he might have forgotten I exist.

So when I saw an opportunity for a little quality time where I knew Jeremy would sit, stand, and slice pie alongside me with rapt attention and of his own free will, I grabbed a gun and a flashlight and went after it.

Since I have gone through the rigors of the Baytown Police Department’s Citizens Police Academy’s basic and advanced curriculum, graduated, and joined the alumni association, I have opportunities from time-to-time to observe and participate in some real police training.

Of course these classes are watered down a bit for the ease and comfort of the uninitiated, but still a great peek into the work of a police officer.

Enter my middle child, Jeremy.

 For as long as I can remember, Jeremy has planned a career of military and eventually law enforcement.  For some crazy reason that doesn’t scare me. I’m just plain proud of who he is and what he wants to be.

That gushiness aside, when I learned a new group of citizen’s police academy students were scheduled for comedic Officer Shawn Latta’s and Corporal Monica Summersill’s building clearing class, I knew Jeremy and I needed to attend, observe, and yes, clear a building together.

After our training, we were “called out” on a night-time burglary in progress. Neighbors reported a bad guy in the house and it was our job to go in and remove him—by force if necessary.

Armed with a flashlight, simunition gun (shoots fake bullets) and our wits we entered the unlit interior of a dark, layout-unknown-to-us residence.  

 I let Jeremy take the lead. He has a booming voice, is large enough for me to hide behind, and plus I wanted to get the full view of him under the effects of what’s called an adrenaline dump—see if he was as commanding under a little stress as he claimed he would be.

Together, we “sliced the pie” (room clearing method whereby a space is visually cut into pieces) and made entry into three rooms without incident.

Looking into the fourth room, however, we found our burglar. At that point it was quite obvious I was only along for the ride.

And when I heard, “Police! Put your hands up!” I didn’t even recognize my own child’s voice.  I was scared for the burglar (Officer Stewart Beasley) and was happy when he complied.  Then Jeremy communicated as trained to his fellow officer, me, and in my rattled state I didn’t quite follow protocol. Go figure. Let’s just say I was a little too eager to ‘cuff the burglar. I was duly chastised on the way home, but it was still loads of fun.

And be thankful that someday Jeremy will be soldiering and policing in far better form than me. When he slices a pie, he does it cleanly and serves up a near perfect piece. Me, I just a make a mess.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Sometimes things that are supposed to bring comfort to our lives become a real pain in the neck.

Take for example your personal bed pillow. Sounds trivial, but considering its job of ushering you into sweet slumber 365 times a year it becomes pretty important.

I’ve learned just how high a place mine holds in my life as I’ve awakened with neck pain for months now.

I’m a little slow sometimes and initially blamed my discomfort on the stresses of living under the same roof with three teenagers. I almost always harbor tension in my neck. But for the most part, my teen cherubs are good eggs and not nearly that constantly a pain in my neck.

 Now, I’m pretty certain the aged pillow is to blame. Easy enough to remedy, right? Wrong.

If you’ve ever read The Paradox of Choice by psychologist Barry Schwartz, you already know the problems I encountered.

I left stores –pillowless–and with a much bigger pain pulsing behind my eyes. I guess the silver lining there was I forgot about my neck briefly.

Anyway, ultra-soft, soft, medium-soft, firm, or semi-firm? Plain feathers, down–goose or duck? Fiberfill, synthetic, or whatever in the heck poly cluster is? Then there is foam–of the breed that will memorize my exact head.

As if that weren’t enough, do I need hypoallergenic, “cooling” (has some sort of strange beads that will forever stave off hot flashes, thank heavens I’m not there yet) cervical contour, wedge-shaped to raise my esophagus higher than my stomach?

I have a good sporting chance of not entirely slipping into insanity over this because I at least know what size. King, please.

Dr. Schwartz contends in the previously-mentioned book that too many choices leave us paralyzed in indecision. That was me.

I simply could not determine which one would be suitable. Upon returning home I did the worst thing imaginable and researched the whole fluffy mess on the Internet. And I just thought I had problems while standing in the stores.

If and when I do find my body’s perfect match, I’ll record the combination and store it in the safe-deposit box with all my other important papers because advertising has forced me to know replacements should be purchased every 12-18 months. 

What really ruffles my downy feathers is that I know in the 12-18 month replacement time the model I choose this go-round will be discontinued.

 At the very least I hope to have a general idea for the future. Or maybe I could buy several (hundred) spares and rent a storage unit . . . decisions, decisions.

I won’t tell you which leading columnist confided he has been sleeping on his current pillows for DECADES. His name might rhyme with “him”. I remembered a column from years ago wherein he described his own pillow woes. Thought he might have some sage advice. “I dug my old ones out of the trash.” Thanks, “him”.

As of this writing my noggin is still not getting rest as it lies painfully atop a member of my sleep team that is no longer offering me proper support. It doesn’t even try. I think it knows that being a pain in my neck pales in comparison to finding its replacement. Maybe it’s right, and it pains me to say that.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Don’t let the title alarm you. Physically, I’m mostly fine. Functional even.

Here we are about a year out from National Election Day. I know, already? But it is high time for us to do some massive cleaning out.

I’m a little shaky on whether or not I’m up to the task and especially given we’ll have a full year of non-stop media coverage wherein we’ll dissect prenatal conditions, penmanship, and even the bathroom habits of each potential candidate.

Something very uncharacteristic happened to me after the 2008 elections, and I was hoping to be over it by now. It has been three long years since we had to consider our plight and choose leaders on a national level. What can I say? This girl can hold a grudge if she’s so inclined. I’m not proud of it, just stating a fact.

I must also point out that I’m not suffering from sour grapes even though I did not vote for the man currently occupying the Oval Office.

It goes far beyond my lesser-of-two-evils candidate and party losing. It’s rather some deeply-rooted (I accidentally spelled rotted on the first attempt . . . it fits, too) supposed fruit-bearing trees not coming to fruition, i.e. people who want the job but can’t or won’t produce anything beyond childish bickering. And even that’s on a good day.

In the great words of my maternal figure, Linda Rowe, and as I hold my hand just above my eyebrows, “I’ve had it up to here!” (Yes, the lovely Mrs. Rowe would pronounce that red faced and quite loudly when she’d had enough of us heathens not pulling our load around the house.)

And because I no longer have the stomach for the non-stop political finger pointing, what’s surely coming in the next twelve months is causing me anticipatory illness. I’m already exhausted. I’d call it sick and tired but that’s a bit too cliché.

I used to brag about being a political junkie—prided myself on my habit and knowing all the issues and players along with the various arguments. I was the life of the party and way too much fun to argue with. My family can attest. I’ll send them your condolences.

 And it was delightful in a weird kind of way to be in a public place—say waiting for my oil to be changed—and have people around me start in on politics. Local, state, or national, didn’t matter.  I would let it go for about as long as I could stand before I let my own firebrand roll across my pearly whites—in a sweet, volume-appropriate voice, of course.  Shocked a few people.  Apparently I’m very docile looking.

But something changed and I’m almost embarrassed to admit I quit caring about the whole lot of it. I tuned out. Ignorance has been more than slightly blissful when I can manage to ignore the consequences of apathy. If only I could ignore my conscience, too.

So, I suppose I’ll have to get over myself because in the end I know all too well that it would be ignorant to ignore Decision 2012.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

Curse or blessing, I have to know the origin of how things came to be. And this season as I took my not- so-little-but-still-Halloween-celebrant cherubs in search of the perfect carving canvasses I wondered what started it all.

While scraping out the innards of pumpkins— saving the seeds for toasting— is good, squishy, and I’d even wager therapeutic fun, the legend of one Jack O’Lantern is a little devilish.

We can thank the Irish for bringing the tradition to America and for the story that goes back hundreds of years in Irish history. There are a few variations, but they’re similar enough.

Stingy Jack was a miserable, old drunk who played tricks on anyone and everyone. No family member or friend escaped his meanness. It’s said he even got one over on the Devil himself.

One day, Jack tricked the Devil into climbing up an apple tree. Once the Devil was well off the ground, Jack placed crosses around the trunk of the tree. Of course the Devil didn’t want to come down and deal with the likes of that.

See, Jack knew where he was headed in the afterlife, so laughing at the Evil One’s predicament he made the Devil promise not to take his soul when he died.  The Devil promised (he’s trustworthy?) and Stingy Jack removed the crosses thus allowing a climb down.

Years later when Jack met his demise he arrived at the pearly gates and was quickly led away by Saint Peter for he had, “been too mean and too cruel, and had led a miserable and worthless life on earth.”

Confounded, Stingy Jack took a trip way south of Heaven only to learn the Devil was going to make good on his promise and wouldn‘t allow entry there, either.

Stingy Jack was scared and had nowhere to go but to wander about for eternity in the darkness. He asked the Devil how he could leave him there with no light. The Devil tossed him an ember from the fires surrounding him and Jack placed it in a hollowed out turnip.

From that day onward, Stingy Jack roamed the earth without a resting place, lighting his way with his “Jack O’Lantern”.

On All Hallows Eve, the Irish hollowed out turnips, rutabagas, gourds, potatoes and beets. They placed a light in them to ward off evil spirits and keep Stingy Jack away. (I had to wonder here if Stingy Jack wasn’t afraid of the Devil, how this would deter him, but  . . . that’s the legend.) These were the original jack-o-lanterns.

In the 1800s waves of Irish immigrants arrived in America and discovered that pumpkins were bigger and easier to carve out. And we’ve been doing just that ever since.

Seems at some point I’d heard the jack-o-lantern tradition was loosely based around warding off evil spirits, but of course over time it just morphed into something fun to do.

Maybe Stingy Jack wasn’t so stingy after all. Not that I believe the legend surrounding him is anything but an unverified story passed down from much earlier times, but he aided in giving us modern humans something we can use to blow off steam. And if it also involves going costumed from house-to-house gathering delicious, calorie-laden, cavity-causing goodies, all the better.

I’ll light a few lanterns for you, Jack.

Take a page from the tale of Mr. O’Lantern and be a blessing in disguise. Have a Happy and safe Halloween everyone.

 © 2011 Natalie Whatley

This week’s installment may be a bit macabre, but fitting as a little pre-Halloween fodder. I would’ve kept it under wraps for another week, but the show is going on.

Tomorrow, October 24, Britain’s Channel 4 will be airing Mummifying Alan: Egypt’s Last Secret. 

Sixty-one-year-old British taxi driver and lung cancer victim Alan Billis, who dubbed himself “Tutanalan”, answered an ad asking for a volunteer to be mummified King Tut style upon death. On top of that a documentary would be made chronicling the same three-month, five-part process used in ancient civilizations thousands of years ago. Then the mummified remains would be studied . . . until.

Chemist, research fellow at York University and man in charge, Dr. Stephen Buckley, says after mummification Billis’ remains could last several millennia. Of course he won’t be around to say, “I told you so”.

Mummifying Alan promises to show it all.

I was fascinated just watching the interviews where Mr. Billis, who passed away on January 14, 2011, discussed participating in such a project. He said it gave him something other than his terminal illness and impending demise to focus on as he spent his last days.

A documentary lover, Billis jumped at the opportunity saying, “If it doesn’t work it’s not the end of the world, is it? Don’t make any difference to me, I’m not going to feel it. It’s still bloody interesting.” I agree on the bloody interesting.

In the same interview, Billis and wife, Jan, even have a laugh when he says he hopes to be in a museum some day.

 Jan believes people find her support of the project strange.

In later interviews after the process is complete, but before the wrapping is done, she remarks on how much her husband still looks like himself.  

If this programme (that’s how they spell it over on the other side of the pond) was making its debut here, why Halloween night would be perfect. We’d have watch parties, be dressed as mummies and enjoy far too much food and beverage . . . all while staring wide-eyed at an honest-to-goodness dead body.

But apparently Halloween is not such a big deal over in Britain. I learned that fact while trying to figure out why I was the only marketing genius that would have held onto this potential television gem for a Halloween-night showing.

Mummies and Halloween have gone hand-in-hand since an obscure book simply titled The Mummy was published in 1821. Before that, no one ever really imagined a reanimated mummy or the curses on their tombs being a problem. But Hollywood picked up on the notion and made it a staple in modern horror writing and movies.

My satellite provider’s listings don’t include the program or British channels, but I’m giving the heads up for any of you more technologically sophisticated who may have paid extra for international programming.

If you watch, let me know if it lives up to all the hoopla because I tend to occasionally enjoy some horror that makes me run screaming, I want my mummy!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

It was the last Bingo number called for the night. “B-1” made yours truly the proud new owner of the prize no one else claimed in the two hours preceding:  a countertop cotton-candy maker. Am I lucky, or what?

I’m sure luck had nothing to do with it. It takes special skill and laser-like focus to win at Bingo.

The winning streak was running long for the Whatley Clan at the BERA (Bayer Employees Recreation Association) Annual Bingo Bash beautifully put on twice each year by Andy and Clarissa Legg, who by the way are new parents to one of the cutest babies I think I’ve ever seen. I swear by Hasbro toy makers he is the real, live Cabbage Patch Doll.

Fortune —or misfortune depending on where one is situated in the parent/child equation—had already smiled upon us earlier in the evening. Jeremy won an electric keyboard and Erin a karaoke machine.

These items complement the electric and acoustic guitars as well as a viola already enjoyed in my home. Told you I was lucky.

All that’s needed to topple my mental state into insanity and make permanent the nervous tick I have acquired is a set of drums.  No, I will not accept donations from any of you who’ve already lived through this special brand of crazy-making.

But getting back to cotton candy:  My not-so-little cherubs couldn’t wait to try it out. And I bet you already know they weren’t nearly as enthusiastic about cleaning the thing afterwards. However, as the webbed confection blew through the kitchen air, they did run in circles catching the “mess” with their tongues. Good times. (The cotton is supposed to stay in the collection bowl atop the maker IF/WHEN the operator is skilled enough to catch it all on the provided cone. I need to practice.)

Nostalgia Electric’s Hard and Sugar-Free Candy Cotton Candy Maker transforms hard candies straight into honest-to-goodness carnival deliciousness.

I banned cotton candy from my personal diet a long time ago as I was concerned over ingesting tons of pure sugar, but I was amazed to learn how much sugary cotton was produced with a mere two pieces of hard candy.

Two peppermints, which I’d never blink an eye over consuming, are two peppermints regardless of their form. And two of the red and white candies provided a perfect, pink serving. I love it when I learn something new like this. Life is sometimes so sweet.

We played with our new toy until queasiness set in, and I must admit to my surprise the machine was incredibly easy to clean.

Afterwards, you know I had to find out how and who in the world discovered a pillow-like material that literally melts in one’s mouth.

Its roots go way back to the banquet tables of European aristocracy and a time when sugar was so rare it was kept under lock and key. Spun sugar was the precursor to the cotton we know and love today. And it’s all about caramelization and what happens to sugar when it melts. It gets a little scientific.

That’s not entirely interesting, but what did make me take note in confectionary history was that the first patent on a cotton candy machine was obtained in 1899 by candy maker, John Wharton, and dentist, William Morrison. You think those two were in cahoots? Pure-sugar genius there.

Anyway, back then what was produced became known as “fairy floss” and cotton candy as we know it didn’t really become popular until the 1920s. It has remained a fun staple ever since.

All of that aside, I had an unexpected great time with two of my most favorite human beings on top of a fun night of Bingo with family and friends.

It’s a beautiful thing to be living in such high cotton. And when it gets too noisy, I’ll stuff some in my ears.

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

My interest has a penchant for thorny subjects, which leads my reading endeavors down a long, winding road that I sometimes have trouble finding my way back from.

Of course we all learned in elementary school that “In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue” and in many circles was credited with “discovering” the Americas. 

With tomorrow being Columbus Day, I decided my brain and eyeballs would take a little voyage of their own—see what still garnered government closure amidst what has been growing opposition to the holiday for the past thirty years.

Thought it would be a quick in-and-out. Wrong. The answer wasn’t easily forthcoming.

Searching for one thing, I discovered something entirely different. Happens to the best of us. Columbus and I are now bonded that way. Bet I’ll be called an idiot, too.

Even if I turned such research into a full-time gig for the remainder of my earthly years, I’m not sure I could ever get to the unadulterated truth. 1492 was a long time ago. And like everything else I seem to sink my teeth into: folks don’t agree. Fact and fiction are easily blended. I don’t have the time or patience to determine which is which.

Where are H.G. Wells and his time machine when a girl needs them? With so much dissension, I’d rather pop back to pay Chris and crew a visit—see it all with my own peepers. 

Accepting what is probably our skewed historical record, I see strong arguments on both sides of the celebrate-or-not Columbus coin.

Initially I was swayed and ideologically pitched my tent in the camp that argued one couldn’t discover land that was already there and occupied by people.

Plus, some argued the whole thing was an accident as Chris was headed to China for gold and got lost. He stayed for a while and it’s said wreaked general havoc on a people and their homeland from that point forward.   

Those arguments held water with me, and as I searched I found the same sentiments echoed over and over. 

So why, then, on this not-flat Earth do we still recognize and even celebrate what is apparently blighted and far removed from us today?

I wasn’t the first the pose the question.

The comments of some anonymous soul brought it all full-circle, reminded me of the bigger picture, caused me to reconsider the above arguments, and pack up my tent.

“Well, there are really two salient reasons: One, a lot of different groups and people discovered the Americas before Columbus reached their outer islands, true; all of these led to exactly nothing except footnotes in forgotten musty archives. The voyages of Columbus were massively consequential (for good and ill) which cannot be said of any of the others who went before.”

“Two, despite failing to reach China, the entire enterprise is a glowing illustration of a man with a dream, using the best technical knowledge of his day to overcome resistance and superstition to achieve something, even if what he achieved was not what he originally set out to do, and so it strikes a special chord in the American spirit and speaks to us in a way the ultimate long-term failure to matter of all the predecessor enterprises does not.”

That’s it. That’s why it’s still important. It’s who we are as a nation, and no, it’s not always pretty.

I fully understand the reasons against celebrating the day. It was a new beginning for some, and a horrible end for others.

To follow in the footsteps of a few states and change “Columbus Day” to “Indigenous People Day” or “Native American Day” does nothing to right any real or perceived wrongs.

Failure and success go hand-in-hand. No one succeeds without daring to try.

Without ignoring atrocities and a sometimes troubled past, we should still pay homage to the dreamers who dared take a chance. Where would we be without them?

© 2011 Natalie Whatley

It has been said that we all must “pay for our raising”.

 I believe that’s true and my mother, the stunning Linda Rowe, will no doubt rejoice (or at least giggle) over the fact that I’m making payments.

Before I get started on describing the nature of the currency with which I’m repaying childhood debt, I must confess that I was the most difficult child and teen to get out of bed.

 The fact that I showed up for school and later work on time was a testament to the grit and determination of my maternal figure.

Also know that this whole bit is more than slightly tongue-in-cheek.  I do realize that if what I intend to complain about is the worst I have to deal with: I’ve got it made. But it’s still annoying and teenaged son and I are having the devil of a time finding an amicable resolution.

Not one person residing at the Whatley residence could be labeled a “morning person”.  However, we do manage to tell each other to “have a good day” after grunting and growling and before heading our separate ways. “I love you” also manages to sneak its way past snarls.

It gets so ugly because three out of five of us don’t hear alarm clocks. That includes me. Shameful, I know. And I’d appreciate if we could just keep that here between us.

Making things worse, every member of the family keeps different hours—not by choice but by school and/or work mandate. The going and coming is nothing short of chaos.  Mornings are the worst.

I knew the new school year with one cherub transitioning from a junior-high school start time of 8:40 to high school’s 7:15 was going to be a challenge. Minor miracles take place each day he catches his 6:27 a.m. big, yellow, chauffeured-limousine ride.

I’m certain he arrives at the bus stop with a scowl that matches the one I wear for the remainder of my morning after we’ve tussled over his not getting up on time and the ensuing rush accompanied by my harping.

And when he misses his chauffeured-limo ride, it’s a most unpleasant trip by private car to the Ross S. Sterling campus. Two-year-olds have nothing on me when it comes to the tantrums bus missing induces in me. It’s pathetic, really. But I do put on my big-girl britches before getting behind the wheel.

It’s all very odd because this particular young man, who I’ll refrain from embarrassing by name, is at any other time polite, agreeable and just generally an easy-going pleasure. Love him dearly.

But, between the hours of five and six-thirty a.m. he is the spawn of Satan. And, yes, as his mother I fully understand what that makes me. I’m living up to the part beautifully.

So Jeremy . . . oops, I wasn’t going to mention his name . . . and I are going to keep at this morning thing and together we’re going to conquer his losing that hour and a half.

In the meantime: If you hear my hollering all across town in the wee hours just before day break I’m not just making a fuss, I’m raising Cain out of bed!

© 2011 Natalie Whatley