Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a morning person. This does not even begin to touch the reality of the situation. I’m a firm believer that the world should not begin to operate before 10:00 a.m. and that I should not be expected to be anywhere until about 1:00 p.m. (The flip side of that is that I also believe that things should really pick up around 9:00 p.m. and that bedtime should be around 2:00 a.m.)

Having two children and a full-time job in a world that hasn’t caught on to my forward way of thinking makes things difficult. Luckily, I’m married to a man who wakes up at the crack of dawn – no really, he literally wakes up at the crack of dawn! – who is willing to lay out clothes for the day, make breakfast, make sure teeth are brushed, shoes are tied, etc.

Me? I sleep until the last possible second, jump out of bed, take a shower, dry hair, apply make-up, get dressed, and run downstairs screaming some form of “We are late! We have to go now!”

I exagerate only slightly. That is why realizing how excited I am to walk downstairs to see my family in the morning was such a shock to me today.

As I stood there looking at myself in the mirror, putting powder on my face, I realized that I was speeding up, irritated that I still had to take time to blow dry my hair, anxious to get downstairs to see my hubby and two babies. Once I understood this feeling that was happening inside me, I realized that I feel it most days. I get ready and, as I do, I wonder what they are up to down there. I open the bedroom door and listen for the sounds of the morning. The first sound I usually hear is my daughter calling out, “Momma!” because apparently she is as excited to see me each morning as I am to see her.

Today I made it all the way to the dining room before I heard her. Miracle of miracles, she was actually still in her bed. (My children’s sleep habits come from my husband’s side of the family!) When I opened her door, she was still lying there on her pillow, hair a mess, puffy and sleepy eyes, and the biggest smile on her face as she said again, “Momma.” Stopping for a moment in the rush of getting out the door, I sat on her bed holding her. She sat and let me rock her back and forth for at least a minute (another miracle!) with her head on my shoulder.

If I’m lucky I get to give my son a kiss on his cheek, but I definitely hear whatever schemes and dreams with which he awoke. If I’m smart and thoughtful, I take time to hug and kiss my husband. His arms around me gives me a sense of calm heading out into my day that nothing else can provide.

How many days have I gone through this routine and not acknowledged the sacred nature of it? Thank you, God, for giving me eyes to see our ritual today.