Sleep in Saturday

Sleep in Saturday

Welcome to parenthood.

Where you're overjoyed when your dearest baby finally sleeps through the night. You finally function without coffee, and - hey, also noteworthy - you're not trying to get through the day in survival mode. If you think that this means the challenging initial period is behind you, you're wrong. Because that is when the negotiating starts. With whom? Your partner, of course! Who jumps out of bed at the crack of dawn? On which days? You name it. And so, the concept of 'sleep in Saturday or Sunday' was born. Mom on Saturday. Dad on Sunday.

Last Saturday, it was time to sleep in again. I don't know how it is for other mothers, but sleeping in is very different for me than it used to be. It's not like I suddenly sleep hours and hours longer. That biological clock doesn't do weekend shifts. So think of waking up at eight o'clock instead of seven and sometimes an outburst to half-past eight. With half an ear, I listen in bed to what is going on downstairs while I roll from one side to the other. Yet I can recommend it to everyone. You feel reborn. Well, I managed to sleep until half-past eight. Dad quickly turns over a time or two on his sleep in Sunday, but I have a different plan: Netflix & chill with me, myself, and I. Love it! Just as I watch my ultimate guilty pleasure, Emily in Paris, I hear banging and a few loud crashes downstairs. Then screaming. And silence.

I hope nothing bad happened. Hopefully not a crash - that thing has to go outside in a hurry - with the bike? Nosebleed? Oh, no, the toddler didn't fall with his head on the marble table, did he? Maybe I should go downstairs. No, I tell myself. Everything is fine. Daddy is downstairs. He's got everything under control, right? I grab a second pillow, settle myself in my spot and throw the covers over me. I am focused on Emily, but in the back of my mind, possible scenarios of what is going on with the toddler keep playing out.

Banging again. Something breaks. Shit, if it isn't my favourite cup. I turn up the television sound and message dad if he wants to put a cup of coffee on the stairs. Yes, that is also part of my Saturday ritual. Quietly drinking coffee. One that doesn't get cold for a change. And without the toddler clinging to my leg. I start to feel relaxed, but no coffee yet. No confirmation of my order either, by the way. Banging again. Screaming. I turn down the sound. Should I go and have a look? I sigh. Turn the sound up for the umpteenth time. Again, I hear something, and I don't even want to know what. I check my iPhone. No response. With a jolt, I throw off the covers and sit down on the edge of the bed. I will go downstairs to take a look. Whether everything is going well.

Just to take a look.


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