It's 9 a.m. on Saturday and I've Already Lived a Full Day

Okay, friends, when Lisa texts me that her teenagers don't roll out of bed until noon on weekends, all I can do is sigh with longing. I picture it as pure heaven: waking up on your own because you're actually rested. Not jumping up, just lying there. Soaking in the quiet and the sunbeams sneaking in through the blinds. Then I'd get up and walk into an empty kitchen, make coffee, not have to talk to anyone, scroll on my phone a little, and then curl up under a blanket in the living room again. Maybe my book would be sitting there, maybe I'd just close my eyes again. The quiet wouldn't make me lonely. It would be a gift.

Because, surprise, surprise, the reality at my house looks different. Somewhere between 6 and 6:30 a.m., my youngest wakes up and calls for me. I get him and we snuggle for a minute. A minute, and I mean a minute, because the little guy wants to get up. We head downstairs to the kitchen, I wait impatiently for the coffee to finish brewing, and then it's off to the living room. That's where the excavators are, and the power drills, the balls, the cars, and most of them make noise. Not pretty noise.

At seven, my 8-year-old appears. Yes, the very same one I can barely drag out of bed on school days, but on weekends she's wide awake. I make cereal for everyone, at least one bowl gets knocked over, and there's wailing because the little one wants more orange juice. My 11-year-old comes down and asks if he can call his friend to go to the soccer field. “No, it's not even 7:30,” I say. He snorts, annoyed, and starts a fight with his sister.

Diaper change, wipe up the cereal again, and shoot, there's still a load of laundry in the washing machine. So down to the basement to start it again, and in the meantime the youngest has stripped completely naked and is jumping on the couch. His siblings cheer him on, laughing, and it's very loud. So loud that the teenager upstairs yells at us to be quiet.

I jump in the shower, and while I'm in there, the little one empties out every single tampon and spreads them around the bathroom. The middle kids are bickering in the hallway, my son is blasting Eminem. My teenage daughter drops the milk in the kitchen and comments with a shrill “Shit.” I decide to get out of the house as fast as I can.

By nine, I've done the big grocery run at the discount store and picked up a few things at the pharmacy. Back at home, the three oldest have all made up, the 8-year-old is drawing in the kitchen, and the other two are hanging out in their rooms. I call everyone together to help put the groceries away. Grumble, grumble, but they help, at least!

By 9 a.m., I've Already Done It All

When I ask, “Does anyone want to come for a walk?” all I get are raised eyebrows. “But can I finally go play soccer?” my son asks. I get the youngest dressed, grab the stroller, and we head toward the woods or the playground. It's 9:30 and I think: it feels like 6 p.m.…

Sometimes I have to laugh at how many years I've already been doing my morning rounds. Because I never had toddlers who played with blocks or looked at picture books in their pajamas until 11. They all wanted to move, always wanted to go outside. When the mood inside tipped, we had to put on our shoes and head to the woods. Rain or shine, on weekdays and weekends. A lot of the time I find it annoying, but sometimes it's actually pretty good. The early wake-ups don't bother me nearly as much anymore. I'm outside a lot, I've got my steps in before lunch, and I get a surprising amount done in those first few hours.

And still, when I'm chasing after the balance bike yet again, hauling sticks my son has collected, or realizing with a deep sigh that the little one has stepped in dog poop, I really do look forward to the days when my kids won't come out of their rooms until noon. To everyone who's in the same boat as me: that time is coming. We just have to be patient a little longer. And then we'll sit in the kitchen, listen to the quiet, and grin happily into our coffee.