I live for my mornings to myself. Or rather, I used to. These days, I live for my mornings with my daughter. 

Prior to motherhood, I had a standing appointment with a cup of coffee each morning immediately after my feet hit the floor. I spent a good half-hour watching the sun rise, taking sips of velvety, sweet caffeine heaven, listening to the world wake up.

Giving myself those 20-30 minutes each morning set me up mentally for the rest of the day. Even if I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the day’s events, taking that time in the morning gave me the space to look at the rest of the day and say “I can and I will.”

When I got pregnant, one of the first things to go was the coffee. But I still took that time each morning, replacing coffee with pregnancy tea and the occasional hot cocoa. One of my more selfish fears of motherhood was giving up this precious time, so I cherished each day I got those few quiet minutes alone with my thoughts, especially in the final days before I held Beasty. 

(“Beasty” is an affectionate nickname we gave our daughter while pregnant, one I’ll continue to use to reference her, for anonymity’s sake)

When she arrived, I’ve found I’m still able to take the time I needed; I’m just not spending it in solitude anymore. Sure, I have to multitask and sip coffee while breastfeeding or babywearing, but I still watch the world open up into the day. I still get the quiet moments after the Mr heads to work and before anyone else wakes up. 

6:15 to 7:30am is our time. I’m alone as I’m going to get for the day, and I can occupy my space unabashed. Beasty is still waking up, and her cuddly morning noises and movements are mine alone to enjoy. We listen to some quiet classical music, water the house plants, pet a kitty…

Not being a morning person, these things help me adjust to the cold hard fact that sleeping time is over and my bed holds no dominion over the rest of the day. 


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