Sleeping in like a teenager.

That was years ago and I still remember that jolt of deja vous as I touched the butcher’s paper swathed in its random strokes of colour.  For a moment I was back to my own kindergarten days, paint flying over sodden pieces of paper in a delirium of delight.

That feeling that you have been somewhere before or that you strongly associate with something is a strong pull and the stuff of movies.

I felt it again recently. It was an indirect feeling, caused by my sleeping in on a recent Sunday to 10am.

I woke with a start, my heart hammering when I saw the time. To be fair, the morning was preceded by one of those fitful nights. Not only did I see the clock at 10am, but I had also seen it at 12pm, 2am, 3am and 4am.

I am of the 5am/6am earlyish riser ilk, but on this occasion, I slept through both of my acceptable wake up times.

I got dressed, had breakfast and before I knew it, some friends had dropped in. I knew they were coming, but they weren't due until 2pm, so they were very early. I had factored in some things to do on the morning before their arrival.

And that was when I received the second shock of the day and that was that it was actually 2pm. My friends were right on time.

And so I arrive at that spooky revelation I felt at that moment.  Right then I felt a kinship and understanding of my children as teenagers. Because they were the kings and queens of the regular sleep in.

I don’t think it bred particularly well rested teenagers. Instead, I witnessed people whose days shunted away like puffs of smoke. It was little wonder planning happened on a whim and a flutter of phone calls. And more often than not, nothing useful or productive happened at all.  It was ominously close to the events – or non events – of my own sleep-in Sunday.

The only good thing to come out of this sorry morning of missed opportunity was that I momentarily felt like a teenager again.

Footnote: Just how did  those heady early mornings of babyhood take only a decade to morph into something equally unacceptable?

- Linda Muller