My husband and I have an unspoken agreement for weekend mornings. I get up Saturday mornings with Lola and he takes Sundays.  We never sat down to sort this plan out, but it’s become part of our routine.  So on the weekend, we both get an equal chance to sleep even if only an extra 30 minutes.  It works for us.

Most Saturday mornings consist of me stumbling around half asleep trying to keep up with a four-year-old.  One recent Saturday morning consisted of coloring and Barbies. My hope was to convince Lola to hang out in her room so that I could lay in her bed long enough for me to gain consciousness.  This tactic doesn’t usually work, but I think Lola was feeling generous and let us hang out in her room long enough for me to wake up.  While our daughter was coloring, I woke up and decided to clean up the bookcase next to her bed. Once she had colored a sufficient amount of pages, she moved to her Barbies.

As she was marrying off Barbie, I hear her hum the classic processional march. Dum Dum De-Dum. A million thoughts go through my head: she’s growing up too quick, I never should have purchased that first Barbie, how does she even know the processional march tune, that darn Barbie. As my brain quickly fills with clutter that will inevitably lead to the thought that I’m failing as a parent, I hear the rest of the processional march. Only it’s beginning to sound more like The Farmer in the Dell. I almost responded with an energetic, “Hi, Ho, the Derry-O” at the relief that even though Barbi’s getting married, she’s not growing up that quick.