Remember in The Excorcist when Linda Blair's head spins around and a voice straight from the depths of Hell comes out of her mouth? Yeah, I know it was 1973 but it's not like you haven't seen it on late-night television.
My head didn't spin this morning but I had the voice down. Granted, it was the fifth time I told my sleepy ten year-old to get out of bed. With each request, she'd raise an eyelid then cuddle deeper into her cocoon of blankets.
"Please," I begged. "I have things to do. You need to get up. Now."
"I'm tired." She snuggled up to her bear.
"I understand but you need to get up. Practice starts at 9:15."
She did the eyelid and cuddle thing.
"Get up." I pulled the blankets off of her.
"I don't want to." She pulled the blankets back on.
I tried to be a good mother. I remembered to count to ten. I took a deep cleansing breath. I said, "This is the last time I'm going to ask you nicely. Please get up."
"I don't want to."
Then it came. The voice. Rough and deep and angry and slightly Satanic. "GET UP NOW."
She looked at me like my head had actually spun on my shoulders and started to cry. "Why are you so mean to me?"
The voice wasn't done. "GET OUT OF THAT BED."
Sniffle. Sniffle. "Why are you YELLING at me?"
Gee. I don't know.