It’s Saturday, the morning I look forward to each week.
The day when we all sleep in until we choose to roll out of bed. The day we make donut runs in our pj’s. The day of mouths covered in chocolate frosting, milk mustaches, and reminders to ‘use your napkin, not your sleeve.’
Saturday mornings mean cartoon marathons, stepping over the dog, sipping coffee with nowhere to go, and a silly 4-year-old with sweatbands up one arm. They mean lounging on the couch, reading the news, hugs from the boys, and lazy lunches well past lunchtime. Throw in the chime of the doorbell, neighbors wanting to play, the scent of laundry soap and don’t forget the whir of the washer. It’s the day the beds get made, and the milk in the fridge runs low.
Saturdays mean hearing the echoes of little feet up and down our steps, high-fives from the basement following the swoosh of a basketball that slid through the net. It’s the day the pillows get straightened on the couch and the candle flickers in the kitchen, only because we’re too busy to remember it during the week. Saturdays mean wearing no makeup until the day is half over, and the boys wearing their favorite team jerseys.
It’s also the day for a little bickering and a louder home, but nevertheless…