Sleeping In

I arose to the purple hue of an early sunrise flashing across my face. It somehow had sneaked through a tiny opening in my curtains. The warmth on my cheeks contrasted the chilly gusts of air that my oscillating fan rushed across my legs. I receded them under the covers in protest.

The crack of a morning egg on the stove is a familiar sound on a Sunday, and I knew it wasn’t long before my son Ashton, and I would cross paths. Although Blake, my husband, usually intercepted him before he could wake me, as this was my only day to sleep in, it was long overdue for Ashton to get by the guard.

Sure enough, as if the breaking of the shell woke him too, the squeaking of my bedroom door seemed to allow enough room for a two-year-old to pass through. I listened for his footsteps as he creepily inched closer, and in preparation closed my eyes to playfully fake a sleeping mom.

A tap on my arm from a tiny hand forces a playful squint to startle the culprit. He always peeks at me with his eyes hovering just above the horizon sporting a yearning expression. I never deny his cuteness.

So, as always when he breaks through the front lines of daddy’s defense, I accept him into bed for a pre-breakfast morning snuggle.

We sleep in until breakfast is served in bed.