Suburban Kvetch

Sleeping through curfew

I woke and looked at the clock.  2:30 a.m.  The dogs followed me to the bathroom.  Had I dreamed that my son mumbled  “Nite, Mom” or “Hi, Mom”  hours before?  Had I responded? Or was that the day before?  I’m a sound sleeper but usually wake at the lightest footstep, toilet flush, groan or  whimper.  I was disoriented.  I remembered, but not really.

I made a decision about six weeks ago to go to sleep before my son’s curfew.  Meaning, I go to sleep while my son is still out.  We live in a small town that’s next to a bigger small town.  There’s no place to go - especially after 9pm because nothing is open. So if he’s not here with his friends playing video games in the basement, he’s in someone else’s house playing video games or pool or watching TV.   I’m not concerned about long, late night drives or cruising the mall.  There is no mall.  He knows when he has to be home, and in over a year of driving he has missed curfew only twice - both times I was actually impressed with his creative reasoning — knowing that is all part of being a teenager.  And when you have a really good kid — and I do — you have to pick your battles as carefully as when you don’t have a good kid, and not freak out when they go outside the lines they usually stay within.

I knew I could not go through an entire summer waiting up for him until midnight.  I like to go to sleep at 10.  Or 11, the latest.  And when I get into bed and my head hits the pillow, I’m out.  But I always wake up when he gets in — sometimes right before curfew and I pretend I’m asleep as he pokes his head in my bedroom door to tell me he’s home.  Then I fall back to sleep, more soundly than before.

But not last night.

Last night I slept through curfew.

The dogs followed me down the hall to my son’s room.  It was dark.  Darker than usual since he’s fallen asleep with the TV on since he was little.  The TV was off.  Though I saw the glow of the cell phone by the side of his bed, I wasn’t convinced.  But, not only do you not wake a sleeping baby, you do not wake a sleeping seventeen-year-old.  I also knew if I ventured further the dogs would help me by jumping on his bed letting me know for sure, through his screams, that he was indeed, safe and sound and sleeping.  So I turned heels and walked  to the laundry room and door leading to the garage.  I opened the door a bit, keeping the dogs behind me with a foot shake and a shh.  I pressed the light button.

Two cars.  His and mine.

It was much easier when I just peeked into the crib to make sure he was breathing!

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This month, in my Imperfect Parent column, I’m writing about the blogosphere’s Promo-Moms.