Get off me, Richard. It’s not Father’s Day!

So I awoke early in the morning.  I am a nursing mom, you know.  Hence my early morning alarm clock, also known as Josephine, letting me know that she has done me a favor and slept all night.  Now it’s my turn to return the favor and feed her.

I nudge my husband awake…he slowly starts to move and then gets out of bed, grabs Josephine, and changes her diaper.

It’s not crack of dawn, mind you, but it feels like it, even though the sun is streaming through our blinds.

During the weekdays, it’s easy—-er to pop out of bed because the luxury of sleeping longer is not afforded.  But when it’s the weekend, for some reason, the sunlight does not mean get up.  The sunlight is an intruder to your “off” time.  Therefore making it harder to get up.  And it also makes it harder to feed your hungry infant (smile and wink).

But feed her I did.  And, like a good little girl, she went back down after eating.

Problem.  My husband figured since I was awake and all 3 children were in bed AND it was the weekend-which meant not the normal flurry of early morning get up and go activities-it would be a GREAT time to cozy up and, you know…

Um, perhaps he forgot one thing about the day—and the title of the day is:  Mother’s Day.  My one day of R-E-S-T.  Rest!

And so I did what any exhausted mom would do on her special day as my husband is trying to pursue a make-out session.  I gently reminded him with those “I am sleepy” karate chopping shoves and kicks that even though he is all hubba-hubba hot stuff, today, of all days, was my day.   Mother’s Day.  Not Father’s Day.

The difference you might ask.

Sleep for Moms.

Play for Dads.

If it wasn’t for all of the play—I wouldn’t be celebrating Mother’s Day.

Now it’s time for rest.

 

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