Sunday mornings are no alarm days, though it doesn't really make a difference. Hubby and I stay tucked in bed a mere minute or two after our alarm would normally go off when a little boy hoists himself up onto our king-size and burrows under the covers between us. His warm breath against my cheek stirs me.
"Is it the weekend?" he says.
Hubby awakes with a grunt, presumably from a little foot kicking his unprotected mid-section.
"Mommy and Daddy are still sleeping," I whisper in a vein attempt to buy a few more minutes.
Lucas sits up, yanking the covers off our shoulders. "My moo-moo is sleeping too!" he exclaims as he places him on my pillow and tucks in his much loved stuffed cow.
"Please whisper!" Hubby barks in a gruff whisper, as he pulls a pillow over his head.
But after a few minutes we relent, give up our battle for more shut-eye, and both wrap our arms around him.
"It's a Lucas sandwich," Hubby says as we smother him on either side.
Lucas squeals. "Yeah, I'm the peanut butter and you guys are da bread," he explains.
Sunday mornings are about staying in our PJ's `til noon, making big pots of coffee and tea, and letting the tv stay on Treehouse for more than the usual 1/2 hour limit. I putter around and surf on my laptop while Hubby whips up pancakes or omelets. Lucas and I build forts in the tv room and play camping and picnic, while Hubby plays tunes on his piano. It's joyful, connected bliss.
And then suddenly midday looms and I snap out of Sunday morning. Lucas is going to nap in an hour or so and we've done NOTHING. There are piles of laundry and with Hubby going bowling tonight, I'm going to have to do it all. A quick look at the calendar proves we have a busy week ahead. I need to meal plan and grocery shop, defrost meat and cut up vegetables, throw stuff in the slow cookers.
I stand behind Hubby on the piano waiting for a pause in his playing. "Uh, I don't know how long you're gonna play, but you know, we have Stuff to do."
He halts mid-song, his creative soul crushed, and bolts up. "What can I do?"
"I don't know!" I say, exasperated. "Why do I have to figure out everything and delegate to you?"
He bites his lip - is not going to take me on. "I'll go shower then," he says.
I turn to my next subject. "Lucas, it's time to clean up and get you dressed."
"Mommy, I'm just gonna play for five more minutes," he says.
"No, you're not! When Mommy says its time to clean up, you clean up. We have Stuff to do!" I realize I am talking louder than necessary but can't seem to stop.
Lucas drops his toy. "I want Mommy," he says, a frown spreading across his face.
"I'm right here," I say. "Here I'll help you."
As I fold up our "tent" blankets, and he puts lego back in bins, he says it again, "I want Mommy."
"I'm right here!" I scream. "C'mon, hurry up, we need to get dressed."
He starts to cry. "I want Mommy!"
I want to scream again but suddenly, I realize what he's saying. He wants Sunday-morning-Mommy, not anal-ogre-Mommy. I stop and slide onto the floor, pulling Lucas onto my lap. He wipes his eyes and lays his head onto my chest. I grab the blanket I had just neatly folded and wrap it around us.
"You know what? I want Sunday-morning-Mommy too."