Parenthood Has Changed My Definition of the ‘Perfect Saturday’
My notion of the ideal weekend morning changed forever when I became a mom.
I’d be willing to bet that most of us have one piece of parenting advice that we know we shouldn’t dispense but inevitably thrust upon innocent moms- and dads-to-be. Early into my own motherhood journey the words I’d often hear tumbling out of my mouth when I talked to expectant parents were, “Better enjoy your weekend mornings now!”
I know. I know.
That’s about as helpful and encouraging as the well-meaning but rightfully disparaged “sleep when the baby sleeps” adage that has been passed down for generations.
In my defense, it comes from a good place. Or a place of honesty, at least. Because of the many surprises of parenthood, one of the most shocking revelations was how different my weekends look now.
Other aspects of my life have been flexible enough to accommodate a child without changing too much. Every so often, I still hit the town with my child-free friends for one too many glasses of wine. And though date nights are rare, my husband and I still find time to go out to dinner and, every once in a blue moon, a movie (for context, the last time we hit the theater was 11 months ago). I’ve even managed to work an annual girls’ getaway into my new life as a mom.
But even though I’ve retained some sense of normalcy elsewhere in my life, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that weekend mornings will never be the same.
I used to have this notion of the perfect weekend morning.
I’d get up early enough that I could feel a sense of accomplishment, but not so early that I had trouble dragging myself out of bed. I’d do enough of a workout to work up a sweat — o justify a day of lazing and be able to pat myself on the back. Then, I’d recline on the couch with a steaming hot cup of coffee and the paper or a book where I’d remain indefinitely, maybe allowing myself to catnap, maybe venturing out. The day stretched before me full of limitless possibilities. At the end of the day, I’d feel recharged.
Today, as the mother of an early-rising 2-year-old, my eyes fly open at the first rustle or whine that comes through the baby monitor, usually between 5 and 6 a.m., a solid hour or two before my body’s ready to leap out of bed. There’s usually a full diaper, just short of biohazard-status, requiring my attention. From this point, we’re in motion until bedtime.
Just as my son’s wakeup dictates my own, his wants, needs, likes, and dislikes (and oh, I am finding that there is a growing list of dislikes at this age) govern the rest of our day.
If I make a cup of coffee, there’s a good chance it’ll be ice-cold by the time I take my first sip after feeding him breakfast.
If I want to go for a run, my best bet is getting in a few laps as I chase my kid around the playground.
If I dare settle into the couch with a book, I have to be ready for my legs to double as a bridge for his toy trucks.
If I feel like dozing off, well, I’d better hope that he’s ready to nod off as well.
Because of the always-on nature of parenthood, the weekends can feel as relentless and draining as the rest of the week, a far cry from the restorative weekend mornings of my pre-mom life.
Yet, I’m coming to realize that while the perfect Saturday as I knew it may be gone forever, this new version of Saturday is pretty perfect too.
In this version, yes, we often rise before the sun, often when I’m more bleary-eyed and less caffeinated than anyone has any business being on the weekend.
Yes, a diaper full of near-toxic waste probably awaits me, but so does a sweet little human whose only response to my bag-rimmed eyes is a bright smile and an enthusiastic “Mama!”
And while any kind of relaxation is probably too much to hope for and I’ll only have limited control, I know the day holds the promise of more adventure than any past “perfect Saturday” could.
We’ll go for a walk while the dawn sky is still streaked with cotton-candy-colored clouds. We’ll take it to the park, where we’ve got the whole playground to ourselves for a moment. We’ll sit side-by-side on a bench and split a donut I’ve bought for us to share in spite of my self-imposed sugar ban.
Then I’ll help my son climb up the big climbing structure and watch a proud grin creep across his face when he goes down the “big slide” by himself for the first time. We’ll walk down to the pier and look for boats on a misty ocean.
Later we might race buses across the living room floor or scour the neighborhood for garbage trucks. If all goes well, he’ll take a nap. If all goes really well, it’ll last longer than 45 minutes. There may be meltdowns, and after I sneak out of his room at 8 p.m., I’ll probably be ready to crash myself.
I can’t predict exactly what the rest of the day holds.
But it doesn’t matter.
It’ll still be the perfect Saturday.
