For as long as my boys have been getting up for school, I’ve been their alarm clock.  I know I’d be fostering independence by mandating that they actually set the clocks that rest on their nightstands, but since they haven’t asked, I haven’t pushed.  This morning ritual is one of the last of little boyhood that we still have.

The days are filled with reminders that my boys are growing. Whether it’s putting on a pair of short pants, asking for a second cheeseburger or using slang words to describe a painful hit to certain male specific parts of their anatomy, I can’t escape this reality.

But in the early morning, when it’s dark outside and quiet inside, their big boy faces disappear as they sleep and they look as though they’re still two years old.   

Over the years, I’ve learned not to panic when can’t find them in their beds right away. It can be hard to locate them under the many blankets strewn about. Instead, I enjoy the hide and seek game as I search for body parts. Usually finding them sleeping sideways or heads where toes should be.  

I’ve learned that pillows are not only for sleeping.  Come morning, they’re remnants of a fort built to hide from bad guys or a shield to hide a flashlight in order to stay up and read a little longer.

During the day, upon entering both Big Guy and Little Guy’s rooms, I come face to face with random clutter. Tiny nightstands hold books stacked high, a watch, flashlights, and a cup of water. I spy collections of rocks, necklaces, and baseball cards. Dressers sport hockey pucks arranged in skyscraper designs.  Photos, notes and knick knacks from school fight for space.

Their walls are filled with uneven nail holes where they carefully hammered in their race bibs. Medals from their teams.  Favorite team pennants and jerseys.  Paint is barely visible.

The floors are no better. Between both rooms, I find magazines, a deck of cards, four mini hockey sticks, two nets and a few balls.  There’s an outline for a project. A spelling list. Legos  are stashed in one corner. Sketch pads and pencils are in another.  Clothes are dropped at the foot of the bed, right in front of the dresser, symbolizing the rush to change out of school clothes and into play clothes. It takes all my strength to resist picking up.  

But in the still of the early morning, my eyes see their rooms differently. I look past the clutter.  I don’t notice the dust on the lamp.  The dirt on the floor. The tiny holes that need to be spackled.

Instead, I see two boys who sleep soundly, each surrounded by pillows and blankets in a room that represents the many things they love. I suddenly get there’s a method to their organizational madness. Their bedrooms are their private sanctuary.  It’s the only place they have that is all their own.

I know my alarm clock days are fleeting. As with all childhood rituals, soon, they’ll wake up and tell me they don’t need me anymore. I’ve already been banned from the bedtime routine.  It’s just a matter of time until those clocks on the nightstand are finally used.

But now, this morning time – when the boys are not quite awake and don’t even realize I’m there until it’s practically time for me to go - is all mine.  It’s when, just by lying down next to them and having a look around, I am reminded of who they are.  Which is good, because sometimes, in the midst of the rushing, the backtalk, the eye rolls, the fights and some general chaos, I forget.

Illyse appears Thursdays on TriangleMom2Mom.