I’ve never been much of a morning person. I’ve always been the type that naturally likes to stay up late and sleep in every morning. Of course, motherhood changes the biological clock quickly. Some days, I’m blessed with my daughter sleeping until 7 a.m., but let’s be honest here, that sure as hell doesn’t happen very often, and most of the time, she’s awake between 5 and 6 a.m. Then there are mornings when she’s calling for me at 4 a.m., and those are the days when I truly just want to close my eyes, hide under the covers, and pretend I can’t hear her.
I want to sleep until 9, or hell, even 10.
I want to get up at my leisure and not worry about making breakfast for someone who will likely take half of what I put on their plate and throw it on the floor.
I want to eat a meal without someone sitting on my lap, asking me for a bite, pulling my hair and shoving their hands in my food.
I want to take a long hot shower without an audience or the sounds of screaming.
I want to brush my hair without someone tugging at my legs begging for my attention.
I want to do my makeup for real, and not half-ass it because I have someone pulling at my shirt who wants a turn playing with my makeup brushes.
I want to dress up in nice clothes without getting covered in chewed-up food, boogers and other bodily fluids.
I want to get in my car and drive fast with the windows down and music blasting so loudly that it drowns out my thoughts.
I want to go shopping at any given store without worrying about whether I have enough Gold Fish on hand and nursery rhymes memorized to last me until I get to the checkout line.
I want to lie down and take a nap without worrying that I should be getting work done, cleaning dishes, folding laundry or looking at the clock knowing that my downtime is limited.
I want to clean my floors knowing that they’ll actually stay clean for more than 10 minutes.
I want to watch anything on TV but Peppa Pig or Frozen—for the millionth trillionth time.
I want to crawl into bed at night knowing that I won’t be woken up by the traumatized sounds of a toddler who desperately wants her mommy and daddy for no other reason than to cuddle and curl up in between us and fall back to sleep.
I want to go one day without worrying about the health, happiness and well-being of a small child who means more to me than the world.
But I’m a mom.
And I quickly remember how much I love the sweet sounds of my daughter’s little voice calling for me throughout the day.
I remember how I much love watching the excitement and curiosity in her eyes when she see’s a “big truck” or goes down the slide all by herself.
I remember that crumbs on the floor are a sign of family meals and food on the table to feed them.
I remember that the crayon artwork decorating my walls and furniture is a sign of a little girl who has a curious mind and who just wants to explore, create and play.
I remember that spilled milk really isn’t worth crying over, and that every cup is always refillable.
I remember that long hot showers are first-world luxuries and that having a peeping toddler Tom really isn’t so bad and is, actually, rather humorous.
I realize that going on shopping sprees at Target wouldn’t be nearly as fun and adventurous without my best girl, and there’s no one else I’d rather spend my extra $20 on than her.
I decide that Peppa Pig really isn’t that terrible and Frozen is definitely my favorite Disney movie.
I go to bed knowing that I’m blessed to have a roof over my head, but more importantly, to have a family who loves me and needs me as much I love and need them. And that if I spent my entire day hiding under the covers, I’d be missing out on my life’s greatest gifts.
This article was originally published on