My weekday usually starts at 5 a.m. Like clockwork, my alarm sings its obnoxious little tune and I zombie-crawl out of bed, regretting every single episode I watched the night before. But hey, Monday to Friday, that’s life. The only exception? Weekends. On Saturdays and Sundays, I let myself sleep in. Not like, teenager-sleep-in—but until a glorious 7 or 8 a.m., which, for moms, is basically noon.
Now, here’s the twist. My husband? He’s always up before me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I married a man who voluntarily wakes up to cook breakfast. By 7 a.m., you’ll hear the gentle hum of the kitchen fan and the chop-chop-chop of onions being expertly diced. The smell of garlic? That’s the unofficial alarm clock in our house.
Typically, I roll out of bed just in time to catch him finishing the fried noodles. Then it’s my turn to take the parenting baton and serve the kids their breakfast. It’s a well-rehearsed routine—he cooks, I plate, we both survive.
But last Saturday... something magical happened.
I’d had a headache the night before and clearly didn’t hear my alarm. When I finally stirred, it felt like I had bricks in my skull. I lay there, trying to will my body upright. My limbs were on strike, and my brain was sipping coffee somewhere without me. Ten full minutes later, I managed to peel myself off the bed.
I walked into the kitchen, expecting the usual chaos: hungry kids asking, “Where’s breakfast?” and my husband still frying eggs or something. But instead, I saw him.
Our eldest.
He stood at the dining table, carefully scooping noodles onto three plates. One for each of his younger siblings. His little brothers were already seated, patiently waiting—hands folded, eyes wide, not a single “I’m hungry!” in sight. It was like watching a mini parent in action. I blinked, just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating from lack of sleep.
My husband was there too—cleaning the stove, looking just as stunned and misty-eyed as I was.
“He just started doing it,” he whispered, as if saying it louder would break the spell.
That moment right there? Pure gold. The kind of moment parenting books don’t prepare you for. The kind that sneaks up between ordinary routines and makes you cry into your coffee.
Because here’s the thing: parenting is often about showing up. Day in, day out. Cooking, cleaning, disciplining, loving. You don’t always get a round of applause. Sometimes, you just get sticky fingers and loads of laundry. But then—you get a morning like this.
A moment when your child, the one who once needed help putting on his socks, steps up without being asked. A moment that says, “I’ve been watching. I’ve learned. I’m ready to help.”
It made me realize that children become responsible when we model responsibility, and that all those mornings of quietly serving them breakfast were never just about food. They were lessons. And our eldest? He was paying attention all along.
So, to all the tired moms out there dragging themselves through their morning routines—hang in there. You’re planting seeds that bloom when you least expect it.
And if you ever need proof that the little things matter… well, just oversleep once in a while. You might be surprised by the magic you wake up to.
To strength, sweat, and showing up every day —
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| Finding power in motherhood and muscle |
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