I love my mom a lot, but she really hates it when I write about her. So let’s keep this re-post just between us, OK?
When my age reached double digits, Mom let me stay up late on weekends. Not just late, but as late as I liked. This was heady stuff to a 10-year-old, so I spent my Friday nights adjusting the rabbit ears for UHF, staying up until the wee hours to watch cinematic classics like Glen or Glenda and Terror in Tiny Town. The movies were beyond terrible, but they were also on late, so they were awesome.
Mom’s generosity, however, came with a catch. She didn’t care what time I went to bed, but she did care what time I got up. Anything after 9 a.m. was strictly forbidden. If there was even the slightest chance I’d oversleep, she would give me The Wakeup Call.