When you have little kids, sleeping in becomes a distant memory, a dream but almost never a reality. My kids are all early risers and I spent a decade waking up well before 7AM most days, grumpy and disheveled, clutching my coffee for dear life as I muddled my way through breakfast.
Now, though, my youngest child is seven. All of my kids are more than capable of making themselves breakfast – in fact, they generally make themselves a better breakfast than I would make, because mornings are not the time I am at my personal best – and they can read a book, watch a show, play a game without any guidance or assistance.
And so now, I sleep. And it. is. glorious.
These days, the kids get up by 7AM and I can hear them pattering down the stairs outside my door. Matt gets up shortly after that to get ready for work, and I hear him turn on the shower, get clothes out of the closet. Then he leaves the room to iron his shirt, get his breakfast, and he hangs out with the kids in the kitchen.
And I roll over in the silence and sleep. I stretch out across the king size bed, and I sleep for thirty blissful minutes more.
Matt wakes me up when he leaves for work at 8AM and I lie there for another few moments, gathering my motivation. I’m up by 8:10AM, so it’s not like I’m lying in bed all day. But it feels so luxurious to stay there for a little while when everyone else is up and going. It feels like a treat.
The baby years were physically hard but so much fun and I’m sad when I think about the fact that there are no chubby funny lovey babies around here anymore. But then I remember that I didn’t sleep through the night for probably eight straight years and I never got to stay in bed until 8AM while everyone else got themselves breakfast. And then I don’t miss those baby years quite as much.
Every stage of motherhood brings challenges and charms. That this stage comes with an 8AM wake-up call makes it pretty sweet.