Kindergarten Here We Come

I can hear her little sing-song voice all through the house…

“Kindergarten here we come,
and we will have lots of fun.
Reading, writing, numbers too.
Kindergarten, we love you!”

Last year’s dress rehearsal for this year’s graduate.

I stop listening at “Kindergarten here we come.” The rest of the song is lost as my internal Momma voice screams “Noooo! Not my baby!”

The Young One is rehearsing for pre-school graduation. Actually, she has been practicing for over a year because technically she graduated last year when she was five. The Hubs and I, however, made the decision to wait…to *gasp* “hold her back”. We put off the inevitable, and now as a six-year-old, she will walk the commencement exercises of the Kids Academy Pre-K Class of 2013.

We thought one more year would better prepare her…another year to mature…another year to grow…another year for Momma to keep her baby close.

Some well-meaning friends warn us she’ll be bored in Kindergarten, and kids who are bored in school find ways to get into trouble. Others praise us for offering her a better chance to succeed as the oldest child in the class, and still other more sports-minded acquaintances pat the Hubs on the back and congratulate him on red-shirting his daughter in preparation for a bright athletic future.

The Older One’s first day of Kindergarten. He’s the little one on the far left. What was I thinking?

With the Older One, we never considered not starting him in Kindergarten at five-years-old, even though with his early August birthday, we would have been more than justified. We were younger then, less financially secure, and weekly daycare expenses were a strain to the budget. We were ready to move to the next phase of child-rearing, and away he went. Just a week after that milestone birthday, I packed his lunch, helped him load his backpack, and put him on a bus to spend the day with strangers.

Flash forward 14 years, and I’m dreading August when I will send my daughter into that fanciful Kindergarten she sings about. What if she’s not smart enough? What if she can’t make friends? What if the teacher doesn’t like her…or me! What if I fail in my fashion sense and send her to school in last year’s early elementary school trends? What if her hair isn’t right? What if her shoes aren’t tied? What if she comes to the conclusion that the words in that song are all lies?

I’m either smarter or more paranoid than I was the last time, or maybe times have changed. Stranger danger is more ominous. Violence in schools is making headlines that have me wanting to hold onto both of my kids forever. Plus the Young One is a girl, and everyone knows they are just plain mean to each other in a way boys aren’t. Even though I’ve been here before, this is brand new territory.

Then again, maybe 19 years of parenting have altered the way I remember the prior Kindergarten experience. I love the Older One just as much as the Young One, and my fear for their well-being is equally strong. So I imagine I was most likely just as anxious last time as I am this time. I’m sending my beloved child into the big, bad world.

I suppose she’ll survive the trauma. The last kid did, and now he’s at the US Military Academy at West Point making friends and scoring A’s in physics and statistics and foreign languages I didn’t know existed back when he marched from pre-K to K. He is a Division I athlete and will one day soon be a leader in the greatest Army on the planet. I guess Kindergarten at five didn’t hurt him too much.

I think I’m going to start singing another song…

“Kindergarten here we come.
I hope you think it’s so much fun.
Momma’s crying, worrying too
Because she loves and cherishes you!”

If you’ve done the Kindergarten thing already, what are your best/worst memories? If you haven’t, what are you worried about? What are your thoughts on holding kids out of Kindergarten?

***I started this post in response to today’s Five Minute Friday prompt, “song”, but after I got started, I found I had more to say than could be written in five minutes flat. So, I broke the first rule and wrote for more than my allotted five minutes, but it was worth it. If you think you can get it all out in a measly five minutes, join us at Lisa-Jo Baker’s site every Friday where a great group of bloggers say a lot in just a few minutes.

An Ordinary Extraordinary Redheaded Stiletto-Wearing Momma

How can any day be ordinary, when I, myself, am so extraordinary?

I’m not bragging. I am simply stating a fact, and it is one we should all declare with a smile on our faces and a glow in our hearts.

The ordinary extraordinary redheaded stiletto-wearing momma in action!

How can I be ordinary, when the very hair on my head sets me apart? I’m a natural strawberry-blonde redhead, and when I look around at my office-mates, I see no one who looks like me. In my own household, a stray hair is a tell-tale clue of where I have been.

The spring before he reported to the United States Military Academy for basic training, my tow-headed son took advantage of his last days as a civilian and attempted to grow a beard. When the newly acquired facial hair sprang out and curled around his chin, I noticed a faint red-ish hue, and my heart rejoiced to see my genes. However, unless the US Army changes its firm anti-facial hair regulations, I will have to wait many more years for another glimpse of it.

My father’s hair matched mine once upon a time, so much so that his friends nicknamed him “Rusty”. I need only three fingers, however, to count the rest of the gingers in my family–one cousin, one second-cousin, one nephew. Among us, the shades of orange are different, making us all extraordinary in our very sameness.

I am extraordinary.

You are too.

Few people have my hair. None have the pattern of my freckles.

A handful of people have traveled the path of my life by my side. A few have experienced the same joys and the same tragedies. None of them share the exact memory of those incidents that have helped to form the extraordinary person I am today.

And let’s face it…many people have a closet full of shoes, but who among them can pull off a five-inch heel quite like I do!

Ordinary does not begin to describe who I am.

I am extraordinary, just like you.

What sets you apart from everyone else and makes you the extraordinary person you are?

***This ordinary extraordinary post was brought to you by Five Minute Friday and the word “ordinary”. Treat yourself to something special, and join us for the biggest blogging flash-mob in cyber space.

Restoring Imagination

The two-story house had sat empty for well over three decades. It was probably closer to four, but no one could really remember the last time the dwelling had been used.

Abandoned long ago.

Its bright yellow siding had faded from the color of sunshine on a bright summer morning to the hue of the powdered lemonade mix that settles to the bottom of the pitcher when it has been left to sit in the refrigerator past its time. The stark white trim, in the few places where it still remained, now shown no brighter than dirty water in a puddle.

Windows bowed and cracked in the summer heat while their panes slowly gave way and fell askew. Chimneys crumbled and eventually vanished as they turned to dust. The railing of the staircase leading to the attic bedroom had long since collapsed and the stairs from the main floor had become dangerously loose over time.

Years of disuse lead to destruction.

The Victorian-era furniture had all been wrapped with care before being abandoned to swelter in disuse. Over time, however, the protection had failed to keep a layer of dust from accumulating on the plush, emerald green sofa and a musty smell from overtaking the floor coverings.

This had once been the home of the Harris Family–John, Jeannie and their three children. The oldest child was Suzie, and while evidence of her and her parents’ names have been found on long-ago posted mail, the names of their son and baby daughter remain unknown.

John was a business man, leaving home every morning in coat and tie and returning in the evening to lounge on the emerald sofa reading the newspaper by the warm fireplace.  Jeannie, by all appearances was a homemaker, roasting turkeys and baking pies, while her children played Monopoly or read quietly in their third-floor room.

Evidence of family life.

Both sets of grandparents were known to visit frequently, often bringing with them gifts of kittens, toy trains or boxes of store-bought donuts.

This was a happy family. Happy, that is, until the driving force of their joy stopped visiting as often. That giver of joyful life experiences was a little girl with ginger curls and an active imagination. She would stop by the little yellow house every day to play with the children and help Jeannie cook dinner for her work-weary husband. She planned parties and birthday surprises. She was there when the grandparents came calling and when the children went to bed.

She…was me.

I was not much older than the Young One when my mother told me I was not allowed to enter the basement for a few weeks. I could sense the excitement in the new rule, and I knew that on the other side of that basement door was a surprise. Being a lover of surprises, I had no intention of crossing that threshold even when my brother was allowed access or when my granddad stopped by for an unexpected visit only to disappear behind that closed door. He and my father would be below for hours, leaving me to imagine what greatness awaited me at the end of their project.

My anticipation reached its climax Christmas morning when waiting under the tree for me was a shiny new miniature dollhouse all sunny and bright and handcrafted for me by my father, his father and his son. The draperies hanging on each sparkling window had been stitched with my mother’s own hand. Each subsequent gift that year offered another piece of the house and its family–a velvet covered sofa, a butcher’s block, a canopy bed. Then came the dolls with their painted smiles and fabric bodies, all waiting for me to tell their stories.

I spent years with the Harris family, but as girls do, I eventually outgrew the fascination. Playing with makeup and experimenting with hairstyles became more important, until eventually my mother covered the unused house with an old hoop skirt, wrapped and boxed each accessory and moved it all to a dark corner of the attic.

Housecleaning!

That is where it stayed…until two months ago when she decided the time was right to pull it out and re-gift it to her granddaughter. When my parents traveled the highway from Pennsylvania to Kentucky to spend Christmas with me and my family, they brought with them a van full presents and a long-neglected dollhouse.

The Young One and I are now in active restoration mode. We’ve disinfected every surface, vacuumed the carpets and laundered the handmade curtains. We’ve pulled off the loose trim and discarded the irreparable staircase railing.

And finally, we’ve awakened the wonder of the Harris family. Suzie is playing school again with her brother and baby sister. John is back at work after an extended leave and Jeannie is back in the kitchen showering her family with all the love she can fit into her menu.

Ready to play!

We still have work to do. The trim needs replacing, and the window panes need a fresh coat of paint. If an imaginary rainstorm comes to the neighborhood, poor Suzie and her siblings will be washed out as the roof currently has two gaping holes where the chimneys used to be.

Years of joy await the Harrises and their yellow house again, and I can’t wait to watch the stories unfold.

Have you ever passed down a beloved toy to your children?

A Snowy Opportunity

We haven’t seen snow in my part of the country in well over a year.

Okay, well…I take that back. We haven’t seen bundle-up-the-kids-and-go-outside-to-play snow in well over a year. Last Saturday that all changed when the Young One burst into my bedroom at 7:56 am and announced, “IT SNOWED! IT SNOWED!”

My snow-covered backyard.

How I managed to keep her in the house for the next two hours is still a mystery to me, but I did find a way to enjoy several cups of coffee by my nice, warm fireplace before donning boots, polar fleece and long-johns (silk ones, by the way, in case you have any doubt that Stiletto Momma would be anything less than stylish).

We were fortunate enough to be joined outside by the Older One, who had learned earlier in the day that “visiting” home for the holidays does not exclude him from the pool of eligible people to be delegated driveway shoveling duty. He strolled across the driveway, shovel in hand, while the Young One made snow angels. Within minutes, the driveway was clear, and he lobbed the first snowball. The Young One squealed  as she scrambled to make a ball of her own, only to cry in disappointment seconds later when her snowy missile looked more like a lump than a sphere.

Sighing, the Older One took the opportunity to impart some brotherly advice on how to form the perfect snowball.

“Let me show you,” he said, squatting down and digging his gloved hands in the cold for the makings of wintry ammunition. She watched with great attention as he demonstrated packing the snow then rolling it in his hands to form a perfect ball.

Snowball Architecture 101

I smiled through the lens of my camera, thinking how lucky this little girl is to have such a loving brother and how lucky I am to have both of my children with me against the backdrop of snowy treetops.

Family moments like these are few and far between these days.

With the Older One spending most of his days at the United States Military Academy at West Point, the only times we are all in the same space at the same time are when we see the Older One on the computer monitor courtesy of the webcam.

I’m not one to normally be all happy and bouncy about sledding and snowman-building, but the opportunity to spend an hour playing with my kids is truly a joy…even when they join forces to pelt their loving momma with an arsenal of freshly made snowballs!

INCOMING!!!!

What’s your favorite snow day memory?

Five Minute Friday is back! Today’s prompt is “Opportunity”. Check out Lisa-Jo Baker’s site to read more stories about great opportunities, or better yet, write and share one of your own!

The Voice That Started It All

I first heard that voice 22 years ago, and I still try to shake it from my head when I remember how I had the misfortune of answering that phone and taking that message for my college roommate.

“Is your roommate there?” The question boomed through the handset, and I moved it further from my ear to save my delicate eardrum.

“No, she’s not,” I replied in my sweetest voice.

“Well, tell her I called!” The dismissing tone and the volume level set me off, and I made an instant decision that I did not particularly like the person on the other end.

“And your name would be…?” My sweetness was gone as I searched frantically for the ESP the caller obviously assumed I possessed.

“I’m from her chemistry class, and we have a project due.  Just tell her I called!” Click.

Okay then. If I remember to pass on the message, I’ll be sure to tell her she should find another partner for that project.

I eventually did pass on that message.  I’m really quite considerate, even when I have a phone call-induced migraine.

Me and the man behind the voice.

My roommate went on to complete her chemistry project, and a few weeks later, we hit the town to celebrate.

That’s when I met her chemistry partner.

That’s when I found out he had a wonderful sense of humor, a love of football, and a strong desire to serve his country.

That’s when I found out that he likes to portray a tough guy, but really is tender and kind.

That’s when I met the man I would eventually call husband and father of my children.

Thanks for calling my roomy all those years ago, Hubby Dear!

Now, please… use your inside voice!

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*This quick story on my first conversation with my husband was written for today’s Five Minute Friday prompt – Voice. Want to write with wild abandon for five minutes? Try it out.

Five Minute Friday: A Welcomed Welcoming Committee

Each morning is something to be celebrated. No matter what time the sun rises or the alarm blares, mornings are a welcomed and happy occurrence…especially when you are greeted like I am with a welcoming committee of hugs, smiles and furry devotion.

This morning’s welcoming committee was a lineup of the usual team…

First up–the Hubs. Because my hair is longer and significantly higher maintenance than the Hubs’ close cut fade, I am the first to rise, but his is the first welcome I receive in the morning. He is always ready with the hug and peck on the cheek that starts my day on the right note.

Who wouldn’t want to welcome the day with these two?

As I make my way to the coffee maker, the Furry One (the 10-year-old terrier) drags himself from his spot on the floor to follow me to the kitchen. As the first cup brews, we both head to the treat cabinet, and he proves to me that even in his old age, he can still catch a Canine Carryout on the fly. His happy tail wag is a welcomed site because we almost lost him to autoimmune disease two years ago, and I so happy and grateful that he is still with us.

Happy you’re still here, Furry One!

Next comes the Young One, all sparkly in her glitter shoes and matching headband. A twirling inspection proves to us both that we were spot-on in our pre-K outfit selection the night before–a very welcomed relief because nothing starts the day off poorly than your leggings not going quite right with your bedazzled denim skirt!

There’s nothing quite like glitter on your shirt to get you going in the morning!

The Fluffy One (our newly adopted Maltese puppy) races between our feet for a welcome of her own. “Welcome back from night-night,” she declares as only a puppy can with barks, frantic tail wagging and high-flying jumps. Her enthusiasm for a reunion, no matter how long the separation, brings bright smiles and giggles all around.

Five pounds of fluffy fun!

Finally, I make my way to windows, eager to open the blinds and welcome the new day, hoping to catch a glimpse of deer or bunnies starting their day too.

What I find this morning, however, is definitely and unwelcome member of the welcoming committee.

Eeeeek!!!!!

Thanks for the effort, Creepy Crawly One. I’m sure you worked hard all night on the intricate web you strung for me. I appreciate the industriousness. Really. But I prefer to limit my welcoming committee to those who have no more than four legs. Nothing personal, but please take your hairy body and your extra appendages, and remove yourself from my view.

I refuse to let this shocking member of the morning welcoming committee wipe out the stellar job done by the previous four, so…

Welcome, Friday! I’ve missed you, let’s make this a great day!

Stiletto Momma

*Today’s Five Minute Friday is all about “Welcome”. Check it out, and take five minutes of your own to flex your writing muscles!

Five Minute Friday – Grasp

I hugged my little boy last Saturday!

Well, he’s not a little boy any more–he towers almost a foot higher than me, and when I do hug him my hands barely touch on the other side.

Minutes before this picture was taken the big one in the middle was crushed in a hug by the little one on the left!

But I hugged him, nonetheless, and I basked in his presence for an entire 20 minutes.

I couldn’t stop smiling.

I miss my boy, and it was fairly obvious to everyone else around us at the Wake Forest football stadium in Winston-Salem, NC, last weekend.

The hubs and I made a two-part journey from our Louisville home to West Virginia and then on to Winston-Salem to watch the Army Black Knights take on the Wake Forest Demon Deacons.

That’s not entirely true. The Hubs was there to watch the football game. I, apparently, was there to watch number 55, even if he didn’t step foot on the field.

Another momma and her boy traveled with us to the game. Army is recruiting her quarterback son, and they wanted to check out the team on the road. Even though the Black Knights fell to the Demon Deacons, he left the stadium with a new conviction to complete the application process for the United States Military Academy.

His momma left with a new understanding of what being a West Point Mom would mean for her.

As we stood outside the stadium talking with my football player after the game, she pulled him aside and enlightened him to my pride. “Your mom really loves you, you know. It made me cry watching her watch you. She never watched the game. She only watched you.”

It’s true.

See that grin? That’s my boy!

I try to grasp every single second of my son. I didn’t watch most of the action on the field. I used the zoom lens on my camera to find the only player I cared about, and when he saw me seeing him, he flashed me the goofy grin he knows I love. I caught it on film, and I remember how my heart warmed and my smile grew.

When I grasped him firmly in my arms after the game, I knew the long drive and the exhausting weekend was worth it.

I hugged my boy last Saturday, and I am grasping on to the memory until I see him again.

Stiletto Momma

PS. Through a fellow writer of the blog My Awesome Olive Shoots, I’ve discovered Five Minute Friday. If you’re a blogger, join us every week for a few minutes of blogging inspiration!

I Remember

I remember…how the bright blue blouse I wore matched the brilliant blue sky that Tuesday morning and thinking to myself, “This is the perfect day. Not a cloud in the sky.”

I remember…sitting down at the computer in my office and starting my normal routine of checking email, drafting the day’s to-do list and turning on the radio to add some background noise.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I remember…I was deep in thought (even though I don’t remember the actual thought that had my attention) when I heard the normally jovial radio DJ say, “A plane has just hit the World Trade Center in New York City.” My work-day radio selection is not known for serious commentary, so my first reaction was to think this was just another spoof of real news. Something told me this was different, though, and I quickly switched the radio to AM and found a news station.

I remember…how my hands came to my mouth to cover the gasp when I realized it was true, but worse than originally reported. Not one, but two planes had sped into the two tall buildings. This is no accident, the frantic commentators reported. This is chaos. This is terror.

I remember…picking up the phone to call my husband. “What!” he said when I relayed the news. As I brought him up to speed, I heard the latest from the radio…”The Pentagon has just been hit!” We were under attack.

I remember… how I held my breath when I heard, “Another plane has just gone down in…” and how my stomach fell and my knees got weak when the reporter continued “…Western Pennsylvania.”  Home. That’s my home! I grew up in DuBois, PA, and when people ask where I’m from, instead of giving the name of my small town, I say “Western Pennsylvania”. They weren’t just attacking national landmarks. Now, they were targeting small town America…and my family.

I remember…how my hands shook when I ignored office policy and made a personal long-distance call to MY western Pennsylvania, desperate to hear that my mom and dad were okay. The first call wouldn’t go through, so I tried again and again, until finally it connected, and I heard my mom on the other end. “We’re fine,” she said. “The plane crashed near Somerset.”

I remember…how my mind shifted again with that news, and I made another call to the Hubs. “You need to call your mom. Make sure she’s okay.” Later, we learned that Flight 93 flew over her hometown of Johnstown, PA, just 30 miles from Shanksville, as its passengers bravely overtook the hijackers.

I remember…not wanting to be alone that day and how even though all meetings were cancelled and no work was done, no one actually went home. We needed to comfort each other. We needed the normalcy of the office setting.

I remember…driving to my gym at lunch, changing into shorts and a t-shirt and joining my fellow lunchtime exercisers in front of the television in the cardio equipment area. No one ran on the treadmills. No one climbed on the elliptical machines. We watched. We shook our heads, and we asked, “Why?” and “How?” This is where I finally met up with the Hubs and where we watched for the first of many times the total destruction of the Twin Towers.

I remember…wondering if my eight-year-old son knew what was happening and pondering how I would explain to him that the world had changed today.

I remember…that my son’s football practice was cancelled that night and knowing this was a significant event because football practice is only cancelled when lightning strikes.

I suppose lightning did strike that day. So many lives were changed. Wives made widows. Fathers made single parents. Children made orphans. Ordinary people made heroes.

Our nation was inspired by a patriotism not seen in decades, and while our President spoke of the American spirit, how we would not rest until justice was done and how our enemy was now “Wanted: Dead or Alive,”  little boys and girls saw their futures form. They now knew with certainty that they would one day grow up to become one of the good guys. They were motivated to put on a uniform, defend the Stars and Stripes and make sure the horror they watched unfold in their classrooms on a sunny September day would never happened again.

Today, I remember the heroes…Those who lost their lives to terrorism. Those who survived with scars both physical and emotional. Those who have given their lives in defense of our country and those who put on their uniforms every day and continue to fight for a country that will never back down and will never forget September 11, 2001.

What do you remember about 9/11?

Stiletto Momma

Vows for Then, Now and Forever

As I started my walk down the aisle, I heard my dad whisper in my ear, “Are you okay?” I must have said “yes” because we kept walking in time to Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major.

Later, I asked him why he was worried about me. He chuckled and said, “You were shaking like a leaf.” Twenty years later, I’m still not sure why I might have been so nervous. After all, waiting at the other end of the aisle, decked out in his dress uniform, was my soldier…my soul mate…my best friend.

The happy couple.

When we were finally standing together before our family and friends, he smiled at me, surely enamored with my dazzling appearance in a beaded, lace gown topped with a little pouf of a veil. I grinned right back, realizing once more that a man in uniform is truly a marvelous sight to behold.

We giggled through the sermon. I don’t recall what the minister said that set us off, but at that moment, we were in our own world–two young people with shiny new college diplomas getting ready to start our lives together. In two days, we were packing up our meager belongings and driving from our hometowns in western PA to Fort Benning, GA where my new husband would start his career as an Army Infantry officer, and I would begin to learn how to gather the mysterious strength of an Army wife.

A week earlier, I had declared that we would write our own vows. This, I decided, would be my stamp of originality on our special day. The minister, having seen too many couples succumb to the pressure of the day and forget their own names, let alone entire paragraphs of text, insisted that we tape our original content to the inside of a pretty white book. I agreed to the scotch taped crib notes, but I never once looked away from my soon-to-be hubby as I recited the words I knew by heart…in my heart.

“When you asked me to become your wife, the only thought in my mind was ‘yes.’  The thought of sharing a life with you–the good times and the bad–filled my heart with joy, and today before God, our family and friends, as we begin that new life together, there are so many things I want to say–so many promises I want to make.

First, I promise to always have a smile for you. I want to laugh with you when you’re happy and comfort you when you’re down.

I promise to be supportive of your decisions, your goals and your ambitions. And I will not be jealous of your time away from me.

I promise to be strong for you and our family. I will be supportive of the changes that may come our way, and I will be open to new possibilities.

I promise to listen to your opinions, and I will not try to change you in any way. I want to love you for who you are, and I want to know you as deeply as one person can know another.

I promise to always hold you deep in my heart whether I kiss you good night and wake up in your arms, or whether I close my eyes and blow a kiss to you in whatever far off land you are. For the rest of my life, you will always be the first thing I think of when I wake up.

Today, I promise you the best of everything I have to give–my heart, my soul, and most of all my love.”

Knowing what I know now, 20 years after reciting those words, I would have answered my father’s question at the top of the aisle with an enthusiastic, “Yes! I’m excited, and I’m shaking with anticipation of the adventure that starts right now!”

Cruisin’ the Dunes in Cabo San Lucas.

It has been an amazing journey so far. From PA, we headed to Georgia then on to Fort Hood, TX, where our incredible son entered the world and joined us for the next leg of the journey. After our stay in Texas, we joined corporate America and returned to PA, then on to Massachusetts and finally the Bluegrass State of Kentucky.

Along the way, we’ve made several memorable side trips. We’ve ridden ATVs in Cabo San Lucas, MX and climbed aboard camels in Tangiers, Africa. We’ve lounged on the sands of the Virgin Islands and gambled in the casinos of Monte Carlo. We’ve walked the beaches of Normandy, France and strolled the Champs Elysees in Paris. And finally, we’ve traveled to Russia’s unforgiving Siberia to find our daughter and bring her home to our family.

When I said my vows 20 years ago, I really did not know what was in store for me, but I knew it had to be wonderful. How could it not be? With my husband at my side, I can travel any road before us and I am looking forward to all the adventures yet to come.

I love you, my dear hubby…then, now, forever.

Happy Anniversary!

Stiletto Momma

Splendid Saturday Solitude

Most mornings, the blaring of the alarm is met with resignation. I drag myself from dreamland, glare at the numbers showing the time and remind myself that ignoring the insistent noise from the clock is not an option. I have to wake up. I have to get out of my warm, cozy bed. I have to get ready for work, and I have to do things for other people.

Even though that alarm fills me with despair during the work-week, I still find myself re-setting it Friday night. I usually stay up a little later on that eve before the weekend, catching the end of “Bride Day” on TLC, chatting with the Hubs or Facebooking with my favorite group of West Point moms. But before I turn out the light and call it a day, I reach over, adjust the time on the clock and set the alarm for 7:00 a.m.

This time, when the alarm sounds, I jump up, quickly turn off the sound so as not to wake the sleeping hubby, and smile with anticipation.

It’s Saturday!

Once upon a time, I met the dawning of Saturday with a similar delight. Back then I was about five, and upon leaving my bed, I would excitedly race to the television and eagerly tune into Saturday morning cartoons–The Bugs Bunny/Roadrunner Show, Scooby Doo and Schoolhouse Rock were my favorites.

Today when I rise early to start my weekend, I head straight to the Keurig for my coffee-on-demand–Butter Toffee, Caramel Vanilla Creme  and Cinnamon Pastry somehow give me a bigger rush than 1970s animation. Instead of heading to the television, I take my steaming caffeine and stroll to the back deck where I heave a contented sigh and gaze across the backyard.

My view. On the really good days, the neighborhood deer come out to say, “Good morning.”

A fine layer of mist fills the air, dew coats the ground, and it is silent. I am alone–a state I find myself in only once a week. The Young One is still asleep. The Hubs, if he was disturbed by my early alarm, has returned to his Saturday slumber, and the MIL has yet to venture out for her own cup of coffee.

Experience has taught me that I have an hour before I must relinquish my wants to see to the needs of others. By 8:00 a.m., the Young One will seek me out for a bowl of cereal, the Hubs will demand my attention to plan out the weekend errands and activities, and the MIL will call for the canine to accompany her to the curb in the daily quest for the newspaper.

My chair. Perfect for relaxing with coffee and a book.

But for now, I have 60 minutes of solitude. I will relax in a padded rocker damp with the mist of morning fog, sip my Butter Toffee java laced with just the right amount of Italian Sweet Creme Coffee-Mate, and immerse myself in a book I’ve been struggling to find time to read all week. If I’m lucky, I will raise my eyes at just the right time to watch a family of deer emerge from the woods and take their breakfast at the tree line near the far end of the yard.

I won’t think about work. I won’t menu plan or write a grocery list. I won’t check email or log onto Facebook. I won’t cook or clean. If my relaxation and enjoyment are not the first things accomplished by a task, I don’t intend to do it for at least 3,600 seconds.

I set my alarm for an early rising on Saturday not because I have so many things to do in my day, but because I need to do nothing. I need a few minutes when I am not a mom or a wife or a friend. I am just me, doing things that make me happy. And because of this hour for me, I can return to being caregiver, spouse and adviser and do those jobs with increased enthusiasm and purpose. I love those roles and wouldn’t trade them for all the sunny summer mornings for the rest of time…as long as I have one hour once a week.

This is my time. My Saturday Morning. Silent. Solitary. Splendid.

How do you find your solitude?

Stiletto Momma