I've been trying to hold onto these mornings. Not in a way that grips — more in a way that notices. The way the light falls across the kitchen floor at 6:47 am, before anyone has asked for anything. The way Zayn's hair sticks up in three directions when he first stumbles out of bed.
Weekdays are a different animal entirely. There's the clock, the nursery run, the work calls, the packed lunches that I always pack at the last minute. But Saturdays — Saturdays have their own pace, and somewhere in the last year I realised they were the part of the week I wanted to remember most.
The best mornings aren't the productive ones. They're the ones where nothing really happens, and you notice anyway.
The first hour
Zayn usually wakes before us. I hear him talking to himself — long, serious conversations with a stuffed giraffe named (predictably) Gigi. I try not to rush in. There's something about giving him that first half hour alone with his own thoughts that I want to protect, even now.
By seven we're in the kitchen. He sits on the counter while I make coffee — the one part of the morning I refuse to hurry. He calls it "mama's hot water" and takes it very seriously.
What we stopped doing
We used to try to do things on weekends. Big things. Beach before nine, brunch somewhere new, a playdate booked for the afternoon. By Sunday night I'd feel more tired than Friday. So a few months ago we stopped.
Now the weekend has three rules, and that's it:
- One slow morning, no plans before 10 am.
- One walk outside, even if it's short.
- One meal we cook together, however it turns out.
That's the whole structure. Everything else fills in around it, and most of the time it fills in fine.
The noticing
I think this is what motherhood has taught me more than anything — not patience, not multitasking, not any of the words people usually reach for. Just noticing. That the light is different in August than in February. That he says "actually" now, in the middle of sentences, like a tiny professor.
Saturdays are where I keep the week.
I started writing this journal for exactly this reason — so that the mornings don't disappear. So that years from now, when these Saturdays are long gone, I'll still have a record of the light at 6:47 am and the conversations with Gigi the giraffe.
That's the whole point of this, really. Not to share a routine, or give advice, or tell anyone how to do their weekends. Just to remember mine.