Who needs an alarm clock when you have retired Italian parents is what I say? According to medical research, the sleeping patterns of human beings change many times during the course of a lifetime, and as we get older, we tend to wake up earlier. Take my parents for instance. Since they can now check off the age box 75 – 85, the sisters and I have conducted our own research and are noticing that there is a distinct change in their waking and sleeping patterns, hence the early morning wake-up calls, and the abrupt hang-up should we dare call past 9:00 p.m.

According to my Disney alarm clock, one of my eyes has noticed that they are waking up between the hours of 4:00 and 6:00 a.m. respectively, although often closer to 4:00 a.m. No small wonder that by the time 8:00 a.m. rolls around, the bulk of their daily chores have been completed, and to them, the day feels as though it is noon, hence time to check in on this reporter and her agenda for the day.

Never one to rise and shine without the aid of a crane, alarm clock, the threat of missed school buses, or being offered a pink slip, this new sleep and wake pattern is causing something of a hindrance to my “must sleep until 8:50 a.m. sleep pattern.” It seems as though my sleep pattern is mimicking that of the average North American teenager, and by the weekend, my body requires anywhere from 10 to 12 hours of sleep. I ask you, is it a crime to admit that sleeping in until noon on a Saturday or Sunday sounds perfectly reasonable, and at the very least, wonderful, provided I am not awaken to provide car service to any of the demanding, unilingual, unlicensed people in my life, or missing some wonderful garage or shoe sale? Yes, if the shutters remain sealed shut, not man nor beast, nor the chirping of the robins can stir my blissful slumber - that is unless I forgot to turn the ringer off and Ma is calling to check in by 8:00 a.m. sharp. This pre-dawn ritual involves a short conversation about what I’m doing, what the weather is like in Manotick versus Nepean, and once again, my daily reminder that it is indeed, close to noon, and high time a wife and mother begin her long day of household chores.

What the parents are failing to understand in both the Italian and English language is that by the time they are reclining themselves on their respective his and hers Lazy-boy chairs at 1:00 p.m. sharp, for an afternoon of Italian-dubbed Brazilian soap operas, game shows and the Italian national newscast, my day is far from over. Do they have any idea that I am running around the rural communities with a camera strapped around my neck, at the mercy of deadlines and teenagers waiting for my return so that they can consume all of the fuel in my vehicle, and change in my wallet? Do they have any idea of the pressure I am under, trying to fit in my daily tasks - coffee, girlfriends, the laundry situation, driving, cooking, cleaning, driving, groceries, career, driving, and trying to maintain a girlish figure?

According to my self-help books, valuable lessons are to be learned from all of these “teachers” that I somehow invited into my life. Translation: I must be a saint.