Don’t come by our house when sunlight is spreading its golden glory. Don’t look for us in the park, at the mall, or swimming at the Y. Don’t even think about calling before midnight. Our family has become nocturnal.
Up until now it’s been just our teenager that takes back the night. Every year after school let out he would start sleeping later and later until finally he was getting up just in time for dinner. From May to August he became a virtual recluse, a shadowy, shirtless figure glanced out of the corner of the eye during late night bathroom runs, a suburban myth who lives on canned ravioli and navigates via sonar and reflected television light.
By the second month his skin would be nearly translucent. The jeans he’d been wearing since graduation gradually hardened into a tough, protective shell. Over time the deposits of blankets and fast food wrappers in his bedroom would become a teenager-shaped cocoon from which he could strain nutrients while he stared at his computer monitor. He no longer needed to blink. Legends said he could only be killed by the rays of the sun.
During the rare times when our paths crossed he told us he prefered the night. It was quieter. Cooler. He didn’t have to fight for access to the bathroom or TV or refrigerator. He could read or play video games for hours without interruption. His only problem was the abrupt shock of flipping his circadian rhythms back the day before the new semester, and that’s how it’s been for several years now.
Except this year he’s not alone. Our younger son has begun to emulate him and his dawn-to-dusk lifestyle. At first he was doing it just to bug his brother but then he discovered that Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim cartoons were the animated equivalent of independent film, only with more jokes about flatulence. Soon he too was snoring the day away.
As concerned parents we were, frankly, concerned, at least at first. But the truth is that things got a lot simpler once the kids joined the ranks of the undead. The house stayed quiet during the day. Our laundry dwindled to one load a week, including towels. My wife and I actually got to look at each other during meals. Once, we even had a conversation!
For once, summer vacation was a break for us as well. It was like sending the kids away to camp, only without paying for anything. Housekeeping was now a matter of flinging some slipcovers over their unconscious bodies and adding some throw pillows for style. A taste of early retirement.
Then, almost against her will, my wife started sleeping later and later. As a stay-at-home mom her schedule is largely defined by which kid she has to drive to what activity at what time anyway, and when they became denizens of the night she found herself helplessly following along. This behavior received a material boost from the Florida summer which insists on rollercoaster atmospheric pressures and daily thunderstorms that just scream naptime.
As the only one in the household with regular hours I became the family’s ambassador to the waking world, running the daylight errands and dealing with the living. I wandered amongst their sleeping bodies, feeling like the maid in a funeral home, wondering if I should be turning them or something.
Instead, I started joining them on weekends.
It’s wonderful. Our living room looks better out of direct sunlight anyway and there are never any phone calls to deal with. The VCR timer can handle any TV scheduling problems and DVDs, like cereal and pizza, can be enjoyed any time. I can walk to the car and back without breaking into a sweat. Walks around the neighborhood are bathed in silvery moonlight. And I can see my family again.
So far the only problem this has caused has been for the teenager, who’s had to start getting up at 6 in the morning to get some time alone. Poor kid. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.