Lately, it occurred to me: our little family loves breakfast.
I’ve never, ever, ever considered myself a morning person. Before we had Annistyn, I could sleep in most of the morning, and, when given the opportunity, I would. Nowadays sleeping in is making it to 7:30 or 8 a.m. without a wake-up cry. And, I’ve discovered that mornings are not so terrible after all (with coffee as my bestie, of course).
Mornings are fresh, untouched, mistake-free. Monday through Friday, it’s alarms at 6, a couple of snooze buttons (old habits die hard), sneaking in showers before toddler squeals, quick tickles awake and exiting the driveway by 7:30.
Weekends are gloriously different. First, we’ll often find Annistyn sandwiched between us, occupying roughly 80 percent of the king bed, starfish style. Waking is sweetly slow, with unexpected eskimo kisses, and curious fingers digging into pupils, “Mama eye,” and nostrils, “Dada nose.” Eventually, we stretch and pitter-patter to the kitchen.
And, breakfast is underway. Kelby’s the coffee and pancake master. I’m the stovetop queen, eggs cracking and bacon sizzling. Annistyn even joins the action – stirring, begging, sampling. French toast, waffles, eggbake, drop biscuits and sausage gravy. You name it, we make it.
This time together is sacred, and I’m happy to say it’s become our thing. A family tradition, perhaps. A lifestyle. A moment where we gather at the table, pause in prayer, give thanks for what’s been and share hope for what’s to come.