Then one day I became a teenager who lived in a constant state of physical, emotional and hormonal exhaustion. I lived for Saturdays because I could sleep in. In those days, a successful morning meant not getting out of bed until 11 AM. At the earliest. Fun for me would mean going to the mall with mom and hanging out with my friends at night.
Ten years later I had married a great guy and had a smiley, beautiful baby boy attached to my hip. We lived in a big city four hours away from home. Saturdays could be kind of hard. Our family of three enjoyed being together, but if we had a lull in our schedule I sometimes thought, "What are we doing here? Everyone is spending time with their families and ours aren't here." I didn't feel that way all the time, but on Saturdays there was an ache.
A few years and another baby later, we are back Houston where I used to spend so many Saturdays sleeping the day away. Now I live for Saturdays because (A) my husband is home and (B) so is this guy.
Most Saturday mornings I make cinnamon rolls out of a can. I bargain with my kids/beg for mercy to get them to sleep late. They didn't wake me up until 7:30 this morning, which I considered a success! They watched Yo Gabba Gabba and Snow White in their jammies. We skipped taking baths and headed out to the country to play under trees and stomp around in dirt. We enjoyed the company of my parents, grandparents, an aunt, two cousins and three happy dogs. When we all had enough grime on our faces and under our nails, we took off in search of a snow cone stand. Then we got cleaned up, ate leftovers, and put the kids down early. This is the kind of Saturday I live for now.