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.

It’s exhausting.

“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.