Jason M. Jones

Saturday morning I wake at 5:30 to my son cooing in his crib. When I get him, he’s happy to see me. His face brightens as if to say, Oh, you’re still here? I’m so pleased about that. I change him and bring him back to the bedroom where he starts to cry until I put the light on. He’s unfamiliar with our room in the dark, but as soon as he sees me and my wife in the light, he’s smiling again. My wife wipes away his tears. I like this, lounging in bed on a Saturday morning. We haven’t done this in a while. Not since my daughter was smaller. Twenty minutes later, when my wife is finished feeding our son, I hear our daughter calling from her room, “Mommy! Daddy! Mommy!” We’ve taught her to call for us instead of getting out of bed and wandering around in the dark, but we’ve decided to try and curb her of the habit now. She gets a little loud usually, but it’s not too bad this morning, and I take her to use the bathroom. Then she gets into bed with her mother and brother and me. The four of lazing about in a space that’s a tad too small for four, even if two of them are children. But it’s nice. She keeps hugging her brother, saying “Mommy, I have a surprise for you.” “Is it pancakes or French toast?” my wife asks. “I’m not supposed to touch the stove,” our daughter responds. Good response. I tease my daughter. “I’m a shark,” I tell her. I pretend to bite her shoulder. “No, you’re not a shark!” she says. “And he’s a dolphin,” I say, pointing at her brother. “He’s not a dolphin!” she says. “And I’m a jellyfish,” my wife says. “No,” our daughter says, “You’re not a shark, you’re a daddy.” “Am I a bear?” “No, you’re not a bear!” “I’m not a papa bear?” I tickle her a bit. “You’re Jason,” she says. “Not to you, I’m not,” I say. I was up until 11 watching a movie, which is really too late to wake at 5 comfortably, and I’m tired, so lounging like this is nice. The weekend passes too quickly, and this is our slowdown moment before the kids take over completely and fill our day with activity, pushing us through to the end, to collapse. I pretend to steal my daughter’s nose, wiggle my thumb between my index and middle fingers. She laughs and pleads for me to give it back. I can’t believe kids remain entertained by this ancient joke. But I’m glad she is.