6:50, she comes in, her feet barely audible over the humidifier. J is out of town, at his grandmother’s birthday party with Zachary. I reach over and pull her into the bed. I curl around her and fall back asleep to the sound of her contented thumb sucking.
Half an hour later, her brother joins us. “No,” she snaps. “I want both your hands.”
“I can hold each of you in one arm.” Benjamin self-righteously snuggles into my right side.
“If you’re not going to have both arms around me, I have to hold your other hand.”
“Shhh. I’m sleeping.” But they’re awake, and Ben’s wiggly. After five minutes, I groggily tell them to go build something. They slide away from the bed, and I roll over to go back to sleep.
I’m sleeping as the room gets lighter, and I’m aware even as I do it that I’m sleeping in. The kids have gotten better at playing on weekend mornings, but usually there’s Someplace we have to be or Something I have to do. Today, there’s nothing, courtesy of religious school being closed. Through my sleep, I resolve to send a thank-you note to the synagogue.
At one point, Ben runs in. “Can I read myself The Hardy Boys?”
And that’s it until 8:50, two hours after the first child woke up, when Ben comes in to announce, “I’m hungry.”
“I know. I’m getting up. You want pancakes?”
“Yes,” he tells me, before running out of the room to let me take my time getting out of bed.
In ten minutes, we’ll all be in the kitchen, measuring flour. In two hours, I’ll be helping him with a craft project he’s been planning for weeks out of a school library book he keeps renewing. In five hours, I’ll be telling him he cannot hit his sister. But right now, I have two more minutes to lie in bed and welcome the light of morning through the blinds.