How to make a non-morning person love mornings

Add an adorable three year old.

I am not a morning person. I never have been, and I venture to say I never will be. Even when I was Lily’s age I was happy to sleep in and enjoy the comfort of my bed for as long as possible. I have thankfully cloned myself in my child and she enjoys late starts (most days) and our lazy slow wakings are some of my absolute favorite times together. For a complete non-morning person to say this means a lot.

I normally wake just before she does on my share of Mega Bed; we’re still on some magical cosmic connection as if she were still an infant and we typically wake together despite no stirring or noise-making. She flops herself over to my pillow and rests her head, usually wanting under my covers too. She’s slow to wake as well and usually doesn’t talk just yet, but snuggles and stretches and yawns her sweet little morning breath (is it gross to still like that? ’cause I do). When she does talk she normally says hilarious half-dreamy stuff that I really ought to write down because my sleepy brain never remembers any of it. We cuddle some more, she sings songs to herself while I do some morning internet’ing on my phone, she plays pretend with Pig and Fox and sometimes other guests from the stuffed animal collection, and eventually she says “I wanna get out!” meaning “open the door because I don’t know how to yet!” Is that bad? A three year old who can’t turn a doorknob? Eh, we never close doors around here anyway, so I can see how she wouldn’t have picked up on it yet.

Before we get out of bed I demand a hug and she throws herself on top of me. Today when she did that I remembered some of the first nights of parenthood when I would sleep with her on my chest, all of her tiny arms and legs all tucked in as newborns naturally do. Her head on my chest, her butt ending not far below that on my belly–we would sleep like that in bed at night every now and again for a few weeks until I figured out side-lying nursing and eventually side-carred her crib to our bed.

Heck, we even did that in the hospital when I started getting all panicky with her being so far away (the rolling bassinet next to my bed was apparently too great a distance for my freshly postpartum state)
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Now she lays on me for that hug with her head flopping over my shoulder, her butt down at my hips, and long skinny limbs dangling everywhere off of my body all over the bed. Turn your head sideways to help you visualize just how gangly she is now laying on top of me, my goodness.
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And she’s only going to keep growing. And it’s only going to keep getting better. So cliche and annoying, I know, but every age so far has been my favorite (just like my own sentimental mother says). Sometimes I miss the chubby cheeks and two-tooth grin, but as I sit here now after that sleepy bed hug, a quiet long hot shower while she ate breakfast, and am sipping my coffee in peace while she’s off in her room listening to songs on her CD player–yup, it just keeps getting better!

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