At the still point of the turning world

James and I have a deal. On Saturday mornings, I get up with the boys and he can sleep in as long as fancy strikes him. On Sundays, I sleep in. This is not entirely a foolproof plan for a number of reasons including the fact that I wake up with every stirring in the house be it animal, vegetable or infant and James has programed himself so thoroughly to wake up at 4:30 that he finds it difficult to sleep past 7am. But regardless, it's a really brilliant and loving set up for a number of reasons:

On Sundays, after I have woken up at 5 or 6 to feed Henry...I go back to sleep. I'm not sure you all realize the magnitude and revolutionary-ness this represents. On weekdays and Saturdays, I wake up to feed Henry, maybe put him back in his crib maybe bring him to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee and make Jake a bottle and turn on good morning america while I lay out breakfast for the three boys, and the day has begun.

On Sundays, when I wake up again, to the noise of a breakfast I am not making or the cats running hissing away from Finn's smacking feet on the pergo floors or Jake screeching to be given a bite of whatever Scott is eating, I can go back to sleep, as many times as I want.

And on Sundays, when I have finally slept as long as I possibly can, I lay in bed for a number of minutes and rub my eyes. And then I sit up in bed and look out at the yard or the sky. And then I swing my feet over the side of the bed and wait to let the blood adjust to my legs and my head and then slowly, walk to the bathroom, put my contacts in, maybe trim my bangs or cut my fingernails. And then, when I am fully awake and slightly more groomed and in a significantly better mood than when I fell asleep, I come out to the kitchen and greet the boys with a temporary surplus of patience and magnanimity.

It's a wonderful thing to sleep and wake of my own volition. Where waking is normally instantaneous and unnoted, a springing (or more likely a trudging) to action; Sundays are languid and unrushed. In my current role, the luxury of languishing is really indescribable.