Waking Up Before the World Does

It’s Sunday.

Before 5am.

The kind of early where the world feels untouched. No notifications. No demands. No noise. Just darkness and quiet and the soft rhythm of everyone breathing under one roof.

Something pulls me from sleep. Faint. Barely there. Motherhood rewires you. You don’t fully sleep anymore. You hover. You monitor. You sense.

I lay still.

Was that crying?

I get up and scan the dark house. Everything is silent except the wind howling outside.

That must be it.

I head back toward bed, stopping in the bathroom, and then I hear it again.

Not wind, it’s definitely a child.

I hurry into the boys’ room and find Wyatt sitting up, completely undone.

“Mama… there’s a ladybug in my ear!”

There is no ladybug.

But that doesn’t matter.

To him, it’s real. And so we treat it like it’s real. We check carefully. We look. We reassure. We smooth his hair back. We tuck him in tight.

I lay beside him for a minute.

His little body melts into mine like he’s been waiting for it.

Eventually his breathing steadies. I kiss his forehead and slip out quietly.

And then — thud, thud, thud — little feet overhead.

I greet him near the stairs.

“What’s the matter, baby?”

“I need more snuggles.”

And there it is.

Not fear.

Not panic.

Just love.

So we snuggle again.

And this time I let myself feel it fully — the weight of him, the warmth, the way his fingers curl into my shirt like he never wants to let go.

There will be a day when he doesn’t ask for this.

There will be a day when he doesn’t reach.

But today, he does.

And I get to be the safe place.

It’s my husband’s birthday.

I’m brushing my teeth in the quiet, running a brush through my hair, putting on a little lip mask, debating what kind of morning I want to give him.

Do I crawl back into bed and wrap myself around him?

Do I make a slow, beautiful breakfast?

I’m still deciding when I walk into our room and his 6am alarm starts going off.

Except. He has several missed calls.

From ten minutes ago.

Snow doesn’t wait. And neither does work when you drive a plow.

I wake him gently. Call Joe. Let him know he’ll be there soon.

Then I move without thinking — coffee poured, fresh sourdough toasting, a snack bag packed up.

We can’t have tired and hungry plow drivers out there.

He walks into the kitchen, still waking up, and thanks me — for waking him, for feeding him, for celebrating him the night before with family and friends.

And then he kisses me.

Not rushed.

Not distracted.

Not half-hearted.

A real kiss.

The kind that makes your heart flutter and your nervous system settle at the same time.

The kind that says, I see you.

And I feel seen.

I feel loved.

Wyatt appears again. Daddy’s voice carries.

Once Daddy is out the door, we decide it’s time for more snuggles, this time on the couch.

Peyton is already curled up here — six-year-olds who wander in the night, iykyk.

He asks for Paw Patrol.

I glance at the clock and smile.

“No baby. It’s still so early. Let’s just snuggle.”

Listen to the fire crackling.

Listen to the wind pushing at the house.

Listen to the dogs snoring at our feet.

It’s the kind of quiet that feels sacred.

He curls into me again. Heavy now. Trusting. Safe.

And before long, I hear his soft snores.

I sit there in the dim light and feel something settle deep in my chest.

Peace. Contentment. Presence.

Not because life is perfect.

It isn’t.

There are hard conversations. There are stresses. There are parts of me still healing and parts of us still growing.

But this moment?

This early morning, half-awake, wind-howling, toast-making, kiss-stealing, child-snuggling moment?

It is whole.

And sometimes that’s what waking up before the world does really gives you.

Not productivity.

Not quiet to-do lists.

But perspective.

This is the life.

Far from perfect.

But perfectly ours.