Imagine resting under a thin sheet as the cool wind blows gently across the room. The light sound of rain on the roof drifts you in and out of wakefulness, birds serenade you as your consciousness slowly gathers its resolve to emerge into wakefulness. Softly, your favorite music starts and grows to a gentle companion as you stretch and slowly get moving. That is a perfect morning in my book, and I have had many like that. A while ago.
Children change the meaning of a perfect morning. If they stay relatively quiet until a decent hour, that is a good start. If I can get them downstairs in relative calm and get clothes on, dirty diapers off, and food in, then we are doing well. If I can crash on the couch only interrupted by dire situations such as not sharing and the sock that just won’t go on the foot, well, it is a good morning. Perfect in this time of my life.
Perhaps some day, I might just get a few of the other kind, too.