Our Mornings Together

I wouldn’t consider myself an early bird.

For example, I have distinct memories of struggling to wake to my 7.45am alarm crooning Michael Bublé’s Me and Mrs Jones in high school before rushing out the door to catch 2 trains and a tram to arrive at school just after the second bell.

But on the other hand, I also remember waking at the crack of dawn on weekends and school holidays, excited to clock the latest PlayStation game.

My wife’s a big fan of doing her most productive work or advancing her creative pursuits after 9.00pm—a time when my body swells with melatonin and all it takes is the white noise of a hairdryer to send me into a daze, ready for slumber.

Waking up before 8.00am—that, my wife would say, is nothing short of torture.

I suppose it’s all relative: I’m an early bird.

Suffice to say, it was a no-brainer that I’d take the morning shifts with our boy.

I’d be lying if I said that turning up every morning for him wasn’t a challenge, particularly on the really early mornings when I’d had little sleep and the rain outside made it difficult for us to venture out for a walk.

But by the time I sat down to write this and reflected on the 12 months of mornings our boy and I had shared together, I realised how darn special they were.

There were mornings in the first 8 weeks where I’d wheel him out of the bedroom in his bassinet and into the living room and we’d both watch The Today Show or Spanian on autopilot.

Or there were mornings where I’d roll him into the front room when his mum was still sleeping from a tough night and I’d pray that he’d keep sleeping longer than 20-minute intervals—with my leg instinctively rocking his bassinet as I desperately tried to catch up on sleep.

Our most enduring morning routines actually began away from home—on our trip to Hayman Island during his 4-month sleep regression.

Some of my most challenging mornings came during that trip: rough sleep training, terrible nights for mum, bubs and me, and early morning wake-ups (think 4.45am). 

Perhaps our boy knew he was on holiday and was just excited to make the most of the day?

In spite of this, the mornings we shared rugged up by the pool before the resort woke up were special: listening to jazz before the seaside birds began their day of fraternising, smiling to the landscaping staff commencing their shifts.

Come 7.00am, the breakfast buffet would open and we’d head on through to find our favourite table.

If our boy wasn’t asleep in the carrier, he’d be drooling at the 6 plates of food placed on the table or smiling at waitstaff whose deadpan countenance would immediately switch with a reciprocal smile back.

These morning outings formed on Hayman Island would transition to a permanent fixture when we returned home.

For a few months, our mornings revolved around tummy time and serene dog walks through chilly winter mornings—my son front-facing in the carrier, my puffer zipped up over both of us.

We’d walk past the same evergreen shrubs where I’d teach him that ‘lu shu ye’ (green tree leaves) could be picked and handled a little more roughly. Then we’d stroll past the one house that wisely planted winter-flowering blooms, where I’d teach him that ‘hua’ (flowers) needed to be touched gently.

We did this every day.

Long days, short months. These mornings would feel so repetitive, yet change so quickly.

Suddenly tummy time required more toys to keep him occupied—and newer toys constantly rotating in.

If it had been a tough night, or another week of teething (which felt somewhat constant), I’d find myself on the floor too, keeping him company and participating in tummy time alongside him.

Soon, those walks grew sweatier as we edged back towards summer—my son’s second and my 34th.

A grown man carrying a bit of parental leave weight, a baby probably too big for the carrier (there were times I genuinely had to protect the crown jewels from a rogue kick), and a big yet anxious fluffy dog.

We must’ve looked ridiculous to the neighbours.

At the time, I resented the early morning wake-ups. Looking back now, I’m grateful for them because they gave me more time with him before I had to madly prepare myself for work.

Soon enough, our mornings also needed to squeeze in solids sessions in the high chair—my sole responsibility once I started 4 months of parental leave.

Then one morning, a realisation dawned on me: I will never again have this much time with him.

Suddenly, the mornings felt even more precious.

One more couch cuddle before I let you loose to wreak havoc in the living room.

Did you have any rituals that felt repetitive at the time but now feel precious looking back? Please share them in the comments!

-Will

Where was I writing this?

30/1/26 Small Wins  ($5 with Skip voucher, large almond cappuccino—creamy, vanilla, toffee)