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Miles in the Morning It is 6:45 a.m. I have just drifted off to sleep, having been awakened at 4:30 by a jubilant chorus of birds. This is the third morning in a row the birds have awakened me. I am not the kind of woman who goes back to sleep easily, once awakened. "I want the mail truck." My eyes open. I look next to me. My husband has already left for work. Of course he has; I watched him depart at 5:45. "I want the mail truck." It is the voice of my son, Miles. He's three. He wants the mail truck. I ignore it and try to put myself into a relaxed state. "I want the MAIL truck." Sometimes if I ignore him, he'll go back to sleep. 6:45 is early, even for him. I will ignore him, although his tone is growing in insistence. "I want the MAIL truck." Now I'm annoyed. I had offered him the mail truck before he went to bed last night, but he rejected it in favor of two identical racing cars. "Miles, go to sleep." I say this in a stern voice that's supposed to make him obey, but I know the minute I let on that I too, am awake, I'm screwed. "I want the mail truck. I want the mail truck. I want the MAIL truck." "Go to SLEEP!" I screech. Now I'm really annoyed. He's not even saying, "Magic word please" which tells me it's not a high priority request. He knows he's supposed to say please. Have I really been awakened by a minor plea that could have been avoided? The mantra changes. "Mail truck wants to sleep. Mail truck wants to sleep. MAIL truck wants to sleep. Mail truck WANTS to sleep. Mail truck wants to SLEEP. Mail truck wants to –" "Mail truck is sleeping downstairs! Now go to sleep!" “Mail truck wants to sleep with MY-YILLS. Mail truck wants to sleep –" In spite of myself, I yell, "How do we ask for something?" "Magic word please." Great. I'm stuck now. Furious, I throw off the covers and stomp downstairs, retrieving mail truck from the kitchen table. I stomp back upstairs and into my son's room. "Here's mail truck. Now GO TO SLEEP!" I say, practically throwing it into the crib. I go back to my room. My husband says I can't sleep because I'm angry that I can't sleep. The anger in my body won't let me relax. "I want the blanket." I am going to sleep. This I cannot hear. "I want the blanket. I want the blanket. I want the blanket." I want the earplugs. I don't know where they are. I pull the blanket over my head. It doesn't work; it's too hot. Plus I can still hear. "I want the blanket." I am livid. "Shut up and go to sleep before Mommy sticks her head in the oven!" This, I'm ashamed to admit, is the modern day version of my own mother's, "Do you want to give me a heart attack?" which I always found so pathetic because it was obvious, in her hyperactive state, that she'd be responsible for her own heart attack. I can't even believe I've said this to my son. I pretend to myself that it's OK, he doesn't understand what I mean, Sylvia Plath's not even on his radar, but I know better. "I want the blanket." Electrically charged, I leap out of bed and storm into my son's room. With one hand, I pull the blanket up to his shoulders. "MILES! GO TO SLEEP! IT IS TOO EARLY TO WAKE UP! MOMMY IS EXHAUSTED! EXHAUSTED!" He looks very sad. He settles into his mattress, arms stiffly by his sides. I go into my room. It is 7:14 am. I set the alarm for 8:14 am. I will sleep. Miles is very quiet. I try and sleep. From my room, I can feel Miles is trying to sleep, too, even though he's awake. I feel terrible – terrible and exhausted. What an awful mother I am. I get out of bed and open the door to my son's room. "I can't sleep – can you?" He looks up from his pillow, eyes not reproachful or even wary but hurt. "No." I walk over to his crib and lean on it. "Mommy hasn't slept for a few days. I'm really tired. I didn't mean to yell at you. You know I love you. I just didn't feel like waking up so early today." I hold out my arms. He stands up. "You want to go downstairs and have some breakfast?" "Yeah." He comes over to me and I hug him. I make myself some coffee and him some toast. I feel more awake, but guilty that I am such a harridan. Miles is playing on the floor with a truck. The silence between us is companionable. "Sorry, Mama. Sorry for whining." My son offers this up to me, matter-of-factly. It's the first time he's ever apologized to me. He's apologizing to me. God. What did I do to deserve such a kid? "Oh, honey." I hug him and kiss him. "I'm sorry for being upset." "That's OK, Mama," he says, and turns back to his truck. I wonder if the incident will mar him. I wonder how many more times I'll react before I think. I wonder if he'll collect these memories and use them against me later, as I did with my own parents. Or worse – what if he attracts abusive women as a result of his mother's ferocious temper? God, please let this be an isolated incident. Miles comes over to where I'm sitting. "What are we gonna do today, Mama?" Or what if he loves me anyway?
Michele Markarian is a playwright and actor based in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Her short plays have been presented by the Boston Theatre Marathon, the Firehouse Center for the Arts in Newburyport, Brown Couch Theatre in Chicago, the Fine Arts Association of Ohio, Turnip Theatre and American Globe Theatre in Manhattan, Brooklyn College, The Manhattan Theatre Source, the South Camden Theatre Company, and the Harrogate Theatre in the UK, among others. Her 10-minute play “Old Friends” was a finalist for a 2006 Heideman Award from Actors' Theatre of Louisville. Her play “Phoning It In” was published in the anthology 35 in 10 by Dramatic Publishing. Michele is a member of the Dramatists Guild. She is currently working on her first novel, and lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts with her husband and son.
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