I used to sleep in on Saturdays.
Like: I used to think getting up at 11:00 AM was early.
Like: Corey and I used to call our favorite breakfast places to see when they closed and then race to make it to brunch by 2:00 PM.
Like: I sometimes set my alarm for Saturday morning - just to have the satisfaction of turning it off. "Today, cursed clock, I win!"
Do I even need to say this was before I had kids?
These days, I call 8:00 AM sleeping in. My two-year-old, Kieran, is at that stage where he gets up by 6:30 every morning, no matter what. And he wakes up happy. "It morning time, Mama!" he whispers excitedly, pointing to the window where a crack of dim sunlight peaks through the blinds. "Yet's go!"
So I stumble out of bed and hand him a snack and turn on Ninjago, his absolute favorite TV show, and then I stumble back to bed for 22 minutes.
That's the parenting version of the snooze button.
As soon as that show is done, Kieran is back, climbing under my warm covers. "I just want to snuggle you, mama," he says with his sweet toddler voice, and he curls up next to my face and sucks on his finger and pets my cheeks and rubs my neck and giggles.
He'll sleep in someday. I half look forward to it.
And I half don't.