Every morning I see him groggily acknowledge with a wordless grunt the trusty human alarm clock that is his mother. Then, moving slower than a dead sloth, he pulls himself out of bed, eyeing with disdain the pure, golden beams of sunlight struggling through the exposed cracks where his windows aren’t cloaked by one makeshift covering or another. He yanks on whatever clothes lay strewn closest to him in his half- illuminated minefield of a room. He wades four feet through the invisible Jell-O of his lethargy to his dresser in an astonishingly fast two minutes, twenty seconds, and, with practiced ease, he slips on his ever-present wristband and straps me just above it.
And then through the sickening amusement park of his routine I go. As he brushes his teeth I’m constantly jerked from side to side as if Jaws himself were devouring me; left… right… left… right-Left!… right…. And then, of course, he has to have his three heaping bowlfuls of Lucky Charms; up… down… up… down…. And if I’m lucky (pun intended), he’ll go jogging, laughing he passes the track-teameans who ignored their coach’s advice to jog through the summer and now pay for it with their honor as a lanky homeschooler beats them at their own game. It may be fun for him, but it ain’t fun for me, getting tossed about like a cork in a storm. Oh but if I’m REALLY lucky he’ll decide jogging isn’t torture enough for me (and him), and he’ll decide to run sprints. I won’t burden you with the details of me nearly losing my lunch as he zooms around the track. But he doesn’t necessarily emerge from sprints unscathed either. Suffice it to say, we’re BOTH puking our guts out by the time those days are over.
Have you figured out what I am yet? I’ll give you a hint: I’m his watch.