The child went to bed an hour later, almost an hour and a half later than his normal bedtime if I were to be exact. Wild Saturday night shenanigans happened. The husband and I taught him to kick a soccer ball; in the house. Yes, he kicked a ball in the house. To be fair and honest, he hardly kicked the ball. His legs swung too early with anticipation and heart-pounding excitement.
Swung too early.
“We should enroll him in soccer in the fall,” I tell my husband. “It would be a good outlet for him. We’ll get to lose our weeknights and Saturday mornings.” Sarcasm overwhelms what I know is best for my child. That’s the part I’m not enthusiastic about. The losing our time together. I know he’ll gain friendships and relationships outside of the home. And those are important. I am still a bit selfish about things.
I like our evenings as a family.
I adore with supreme adoration our early morning rituals.
Because even though the child went to bed an hour and a half later, he only slept 5 minutes past his normal waking time. 7 a.m. is considered sleeping in. Today, we slept in. The boy deemed 7:05 a.m. an appropriate waking time.
His feet sound too grown to be a child as they stomp gleefully down the hardwood hallway. His eyes too wide for the few hours of sleep his body didn’t get. His voice though… it still talks with a childish wonderment.
“Wake up, Mama. The sun is up. Wake up.” The words are a shrill alarm clock. One I can’t hit a snooze button on. I wouldn’t dare.
It is those mornings, I can only smile and groan in the same breath. “I’m up, baby. I’m up.”
I’m not fully coherent. My body is aching to pee and be replenished with caffeine and food, and my hair is wrapped loosely as golden strands hang into my eyes. I wipe the dreams from tired eyes and check the mirror to see exhaustion and dreams of sleeping until 9 a.m. dying.
There is a common memory many children will have. A mother or a father always awake by 5 or 6 a.m. I have this memory of my own mother. As an adult (so people keep calling me), I have a voice saying internally, “We did this to them. We made them, our parents, early risers.”
Whenever we stayed in a hotel or shared any room of any kind, my mother would arise turning on bathroom lights. They blinded the dark early morning. She would sneak out of the room. I know where her direction was headed now. Coffee. She went to get the first cup of liquid rejuvenation. She went to start her day. I’m guessing at home with two children, born two years apart, those early morning awakenings were probably her only times spent alone.
There is a solitude in those quiet, peace-filled moments. A time for prayers. A time for recollection. A time for pep-talks and drowning last night’s worries in a steaming hot coffee bath.
Then Sunday morning rises.
A child screams in satisfaction thinking he’s slept long enough. The nighttime is gone and his room is beginning to become drenched in a new day’s sunlit curtain. He’s ready to go to the park and take huge bites out of the day.
He wants chocolate milk for breakfast. He wants Peppa and Paw Patrol. He wants to live his life. I can’t deny his enthusiasm to live.
The husband has beckoned, “Breakfast is ready, family. Get off your electronics and eat.”
I got a Sunday to live. Sunday morning has risen.