It was 9 a.m. on a Saturday when I was jolted awake by the cheerful sounds of Moana playing in the living room. My three kids, including our youngest, had been up for what felt like ages, yet they had somehow managed to leave my partner, Jenna, and me undisturbed. Jenna was still peacefully sleeping, probably trying to recover from years of early wake-ups, while I lay staring at the ceiling in disbelief.
We had decided that our family was complete. We had taken the necessary steps to ensure that, aside from Aspen, our little wanderer, we wouldn’t be awakened at dawn demanding milk, cereal, or whatever delightful snack a 3-year-old can conjure at an ungodly hour. We hoped our older kids, aged 10 and 7, would take my suggestion to help Aspen with breakfast and enjoy a movie, allowing us to relish a few extra hours of sleep on the weekends.
Honestly, we were waiting for what felt like an endless array of gears to click into place, so that Jenna and I wouldn’t have to take turns on Saturday mornings. Usually, one of us would rise early with the kids while the other caught some extra Zs, only to switch roles around 8 a.m. This routine often meant we didn’t truly get going until nearly noon.
I won’t speak for every parent, but sleep is a prized possession in our household. Jenna and I frequently negotiate for more of it, so having the kids manage themselves on a Saturday morning felt like a miracle.
Rolling over to check on Jenna, I noticed her eyes flutter open, squinting against the bright sunlight streaming through the window. It had been so long since we’d both been able to sleep in that it felt like we’d slipped into a time warp, back to the days before children when we used to complain about being tired from oversleeping.
“What time is it?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep, as if she were trying to comprehend a foreign concept.
“It’s 9:05 a.m.,” I replied.
Jenna’s eyes widened in amazement. She rolled onto her back, gazing at the ceiling in silence.
“This might be the best day of my life,” I said, and Jenna simply squeezed my hand, both of us savoring this rare moment of tranquility.
But, as is often the case in parenting, our peace was short-lived. Our toddler, Aspen, stealthily entered our bedroom with chocolate smeared all over her face, dripping down her neck and staining her Peppa Pig nightgown.
She beamed up at us, blissfully unaware of the mess she had created. I had no idea where she had found the chocolate or who had given it to her, though I could confidently guess that our living room was now a disaster zone.
In that moment, I didn’t even care. I was simply grateful for this unexpected luxury of sleeping in. I had no clue how often this would happen in the future, but for today, I felt a renewed sense of optimism about parenthood. It’s incredible what a little extra sleep can do for one’s spirit.
Aspen attempted to climb into bed, but Jenna quickly intercepted her to prevent a chocolate catastrophe. Scooping her up, she carried her off to the bathroom for a cleanup. Meanwhile, I stretched at the edge of the bed, and I heard Jenna say, “Thank you for letting us sleep.”
Aspen giggled, and I took that as my cue to venture into the living room, where I was greeted by a delightful chaos. As a parent, I often assert that I’d do just about anything for a few extra hours of sleep, and in this case, the chocolate mess was totally worth it. At least it wasn’t poop.
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In summary, that Saturday morning was a rare gift of sleep for my partner and me, even amidst the chaos of parenting. It reminded us that, despite the constant demands of kids, moments of peace can still be found, and they are worth cherishing.