Sunday mornings are pretty magical.
Even with the baby.
There’s a morning wake up call—now, the sound of Eleanor cooing, or crying. There’s the smell of the coffee, the rush of water and the sigh of the machine as it makes the last few drops.
There’s the Sunday Times at the front door. A jazz record playing. There’s the sound of Eleanor’s toys singing the ABC’s. She’s almost always exploring these days, pulling books off her shelves, or unpacking her diaper bag.
It’s dark outside. Maybe the neighbor’s light is on and we can see it from our second-story apartment. Most of the time, however, we’re the only two up. It’s 5am. Or 5:30am. Getting up is the hardest part, but these moments are so sweet. So savory.
I read the paper slowly, setting it down every minute or so to help Eleanor, or pull her away from something she shouldn’t be doing. After a while, I ditch the paper and we play together when she’s made it clear she’s ready for her companion.
Soon, I will start cooking breakfast. Soon, the day will begin and there will be things to do, like cleaning, and cooking. Like laundry. There will be errands to run.
But another morning is always around the corner. The sun will set, and sometime before it will rise, we will wake up, Eleanor and I, before anyone else, and wait for the churn of morning.