Saturday morning nostalgia

I wake without the assistance of an alarm clock. My eyes dart open - there is no fluttering or resistance here, we're quite well versed in being tired and getting up anyway - to the sound of my son's cries. He is in no distress, of course, but mornings aren't really his gig. His list of things that "aren't really his gig" is a lot longer than I remember Leah's being, but my feet find the floor, my hands lift him gently out of the crib. He rests his head on my shoulder, his breathing returns to normal and, less the still snotty nose, he is perfectly content. The big one is already awake and she runs to Brother's room and wraps her overly happy 6 a.m. arms around my legs.

There are four people in our bed, but the ones who take up the most room by far are the two wearing the tiniest clothes. The little one likes to poke the big one in the face. And then he laughs because he thinks he's hilarious. She insists on holding him {she says they are snuggling, but I'm pretty sure she's just bossy} and he squirms and yells and soon after concedes but goes back to poking her in the face and laughing.

Their legs intertwine. Their fingers intertwine. Their voices and laughter intertwine.

As I sip my coffee to the tune of Caillou {and Good Lord how many days when I'm about to lose my crap on my kids do I stop and think, "Hey, it could be worse. I could be Caillou's mom."}, the slow pace of the morning singlehandedly cancels out all those other mornings when I'm pretty sure my head will actually explode with 900 reiterations of pleaseputyourunderwearon and pleaseeatyourcerealI'd- hateforyoutogohungry.

It's a moment to breathe.  It's a moment to remember how lucky I am to be the one who is perpetually called upon to manage the crises of tinies.

One day soon they won't want to snuggle in bed on a Saturday morning.  One day soon, she'll prefer to sleep over at a friend's house and stumble in, bleary-eyed from laughing and playing video games all night, a half-rolled sleeping bag under her arm.  One day soon, he'll want to spend his Saturdays at football games, marching band competitions or track meets.  She'll drive a car.  He'll have a dorm room.  She'll have a wedding.

So for now, when the Saturday mornings strike, I don't mind the extra room they take up in the bed, or the poking or the same episode of Caillou I've watched thirty six times before.

Because whatever else they have, I'll always have Saturday mornings.