The days will start with quiet. No talking. For at least 30 minutes.
Mornings are not peaceful here. I want moments to drink a cup of coffee while the sun slowly warms the ground. I want moments to be grateful for all I have and all that will happen that day. I want moments to wake. I want moments to gently ease into the day. I want moments to think.
I have three children under the age of four. That shit ain’t happening.
The first two hours of the day are a blur. It’s two hours of giving: breakfast, answers, directives, instructions, juice. It’s two hours of putting things away. It’s two hours of wondering how the hell the house got so messy since I went to bed. It’s two hours of wanting toddler energy to just settle down. It’s two hours of knock-knock jokes eagerly submitted to my face. (Incidentally, answering “Knock Knock!” with “Come in!” does not amuse a toddler.) It’s two hours of kiddie music played. It’s two hours of excitement.
“Get up earlier than the rest of your family,” is the advice most often given by women who, I imagine, float around their homes in the wee hours, smiling at the dawn, inhaling the morning dew and gathering bouquets of lavender.
My boys get up at 5:30. I have gladly tried to get up at 5:00 for that blessed, magical first half hour to myself. My boys have supersonic hearing. I can push the covers off my feet at 5:00 and I hear, “Mama! Good morning!” I think they can sense my eyes opening.
Huzzy and I go on vacation (hooray! Alone!) in October. The days will start with quiet. No talking. For at least 30 minutes.