Past My Bedtime
(by Gabriella Marie)
I could hear Julie Andrews singing, “The hills are alive with the sound of music…” from inside the kitchen, and I could smell good things as I crept my eight-year-old self downstairs. I thought I was crafty, as I slowly peered around the corner and into the cozy kitchen. There I saw my sprite-like mother sitting on the hardwood floor with a great big roasting pan between her outstretched legs, kneading a mountain of sweet-smelling dough while peering up at the small television we kept next to the kitchen table.
She almost immediately noticed my presence, and my heart dropped. Certainly she would send me back to bed. My bedtime was a firm 8 o’clock. Being a teacher, she would most likely scold, emphasize the importance of sleep for the young, and send me straight from whence I came.
“Well, if you’re up, you might as well help.”