There was a time, not so long ago, that I could sleep in. I loved it. I planned my entire weekend around it. Justin, my husband, and I would sleep in, have breakfast in bed, read for hours, and not even think about getting dressed until well after noon. On Saturday mornings, our bed was our own little private island of perfection.
And then we had a baby. Like a literal thief in the night, he swept in with his sweet chubby cheeks and midnight demands and stole any dreams I had of ever sleeping in again.
A year later, he sleeps peacefully for twelve hours every night, and I'm up before the sun twiddling my thumbs and sipping my coffee waiting for the day to begin.
And those quiet early mornings are when I am happiest to call this my home.
With my (first) cup of coffee in hand, I stroll the back forty (technically only three acres, but we're super cool and like to pretend we live on an actual farm. Stay with me.) while the dogs hunt for deer poop to roll around in frolic playfully in the field.
I snap a few pictures before I'm summoned back to the house to resume my motherly duties of snuggling and locating exactly the right sippy cup for breakfast. It's a different kind of perfection, but it's perfect nonetheless.
Besides, sleeping in is overrated anyway. Unless you're offering to babysit, in which case, just have him back by Monday!
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