Updated Nov 20, 2025 • ~9 min read
EMILIA
The morning routine has become sacred to me.
Not because it’s special or exciting—it’s actually mundane and chaotic. But because we’re doing it together.
I wake up to Asher’s arm around me, the monitor showing Miles still asleep, and the early morning light filtering through the curtains.
This. This is everything.
Asher stirs, pulling me closer. “Morning,” he mumbles, still half asleep.
“Morning.”
“Is he still asleep?”
I check the monitor. “Miraculously, yes.”
“What time is it?”
“Six forty-five.”
“We have fifteen minutes before he wakes up.”
“Optimistic. I give it ten.”
We lay there in comfortable silence, stealing these precious quiet moments before the tornado hits.
“I love this,” Asher says quietly.
“Laying in bed?”
“Waking up with you. Every morning. Knowing you’re the first thing I see.”
“That’s very romantic for someone who’s barely conscious.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
Right on cue—ten minutes, I was right—we hear Miles through the monitor.
“Mama? Dada? I wake up! Come get me! I need go potty!”
We both bolt upright.
“Did he just say—”
“Potty. He said potty.”
We’ve been casually introducing the concept, but Miles has shown zero interest. Until apparently right now.
We rush to his room and find him standing in his crib, doing the telltale potty dance.
“Good morning, buddy,” I say, lifting him out. “You need to use the potty?”
“YES! Potty now!”
Asher is already pulling out the training potty we bought weeks ago and haven’t used.
“Okay, big guy, let’s try this.”
Twenty minutes later, Miles has successfully used the potty for the first time, and we’re treating it like he just won the Nobel Prize.
“You did it!” I’m genuinely excited, despite the fact that I’m cheering for bodily functions.
“I did it! I big boy now!”
“The biggest boy,” Asher confirms, looking at me with wonder. “Is this really happening? Is he potty training?”
“Don’t jinx it. He could change his mind tomorrow.”
But Miles is committed. “No more diapers! I wear big boy pants!”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I caution.
We compromise—regular underwear but with easy-access pants and strategically located bathrooms wherever we go.
Breakfast is the usual chaos, but there’s this lightness to it now. Like we’ve crossed some parenting milestone.
“Remember when he was a newborn?” I say, watching Miles attempt to pour his own milk and spill half of it. “And we thought that was hard?”
“That was hard,” Asher says, cleaning up the spill.
“But this is harder. Different hard.”
“Better hard though.”
“Definitely better hard.”
After breakfast, while Miles plays with his toys, Asher and I clean the kitchen together. We’ve developed a routine—he washes, I dry, we talk about the day ahead.
“I have a consultation call at ten,” he says. “That startup I told you about.”
“The sustainable packaging one?”
“Yeah. Should be about an hour.”
“Miles and I will probably go to the park. Burn off some energy before lunch.”
“Want me to join after my call?”
“If you want. We’ll be the ones covered in wood chips.”
“My favorite look on both of you.”
I swat him with the dish towel, and he grins.
This domesticity should be boring. Before, I would have found it suffocating. But now, after losing it and getting it back, it feels precious.
“What are you thinking about?” Asher asks.
“How different this is from what I imagined.”
“Good different or bad different?”
“Good. Definitely good. Two years ago, I was alone with a newborn, terrified I was doing everything wrong. Now I’m here, with you, and Miles is thriving, and I’m—”
“Happy?”
“Yeah. Really, truly happy.”
He puts down the dish he’s washing, turns to me. “Me too. Happier than I’ve ever been.”
“Even with the chaos? The sleepless nights that still happen sometimes? The tantrums?”
“Especially with all of that. It’s real, Emilia. It’s messy and hard and perfect.”
Miles interrupts our moment by announcing he has to go potty again.
We both drop everything and rush him to the bathroom, where he successfully goes again.
“Two for two!” Asher cheers.
“I’m calling Cora,” I say, pulling out my phone.
“It’s seven in the morning.”
“She’ll want to know her nephew is a genius.”
Cora answers on the third ring, sounding groggy. “This better be life or death.”
“Miles used the potty! Twice!”
A pause. “You woke me up for this?”
“It’s a big deal!”
“It’s pee, Em. Literally every human learns to do this.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m tired. Congrats to Miles. I’m going back to sleep.”
She hangs up, and Asher is laughing.
“She has a point,” he says.
“Whose side are you on?”
“The side of letting Cora sleep.”
“Traitor.”
The rest of the morning unfolds in its typical rhythm. Miles plays, we supervise. He demands snacks every fifteen minutes. We remind him to use the potty, which he does with varying degrees of success.
By eleven, we’re all at the park. Miles runs straight for the swings, and Asher pushes him while I sit on a bench, watching.
“Higher! Higher!” Miles squeals.
“If I push you any higher, you’ll launch into space.”
“I wanna go to space!”
“Maybe when you’re older.”
I pull out my phone and snap a photo—Miles mid-swing, Asher behind him, both of them laughing. This is going in the album.
Our growing collection of normal moments. The kind I thought I’d never have.
After swings, Miles demands the slide. Then the climbing structure. Then back to swings.
Toddlers are nothing if not consistent.
“I’m exhausted just watching him,” I comment when Asher finally comes to sit beside me.
“Where does he get the energy?”
“No idea. Certainly not from me. I need a nap just thinking about it.”
Miles runs over, grass-stained and sweaty. “Mama, I hungry.”
“Already? We just had breakfast.”
“That was hours ago!”
He’s not wrong. It’s been almost three hours.
“Home for lunch?” Asher suggests.
“Please.”
We gather Miles—a process that takes fifteen minutes of negotiation about bringing leaves home—and head to the car.
On the drive, Miles talks nonstop about everything he saw at the park. A dog, several birds, a very interesting stick.
“He’s going to be a narrator,” Asher observes.
“Or a lawyer. He argues everything.”
“Gets that from you.”
“Excuse me, I don’t argue. I discuss with passion.”
He reaches over, takes my hand. “I love that about you.”
“The arguing?”
“The passion. You care deeply about everything. It’s one of my favorite things.”
“You’re very sweet when you want to be.”
“I’m always sweet.”
“Mama, Dada kissing?” Miles asks from the backseat.
“Not while I’m driving,” I assure him.
“Dada can kiss Mama later?”
“Definitely,” Asher confirms.
“Okay. I allow it.”
We exchange amused glances. “He allows it,” I mouth.
“Generous of him.”
Home, lunch, and then the moment we’ve been dreading—nap time.
Miles has recently decided naps are for babies, despite being exhausted.
“I not tired!” he insists, yawning hugely.
“Just a quiet rest,” I suggest.
“No rest! Play!”
It takes twenty minutes of negotiation, two books, and a lullaby before he finally crashes.
Asher and I collapse on the couch.
“I need a vacation from parenting,” I say.
“We just had one. Last weekend.”
“That was thirty-six hours. I need like, a week.”
“When he’s in college, we can vacation for months.”
“I’ll be too old to enjoy it.”
“Never.”
We rest in the quiet house, and I think about how this is my life now. Every morning, same routine. Every day, same park, same meals, same bedtime battles.
And I wouldn’t change a single thing.
“Asher?”
“Mm?”
“Thanks for being here. For all of this.”
He turns to look at me. “Thank you for letting me. For giving me this second chance.”
“It was the right call.”
“Best call you ever made.”
“Second best. First was crashing your wedding.”
“Fair point.”
We fall asleep on the couch, waking only when Miles calls for us through the monitor.
“Mama! Dada! I wake! And I go potty in my sleep!”
We bolt upright.
“Did he just—”
“I think he had an accident.”
We rush upstairs to find a very proud Miles standing in a wet bed.
“I tried to use the potty but I was sleeping!”
“That’s okay, buddy. Accidents happen.”
“I not a baby!”
“You’re not. You’re learning. Everyone has accidents while they’re learning.”
We clean him up, change the sheets, and reassure him that he’s doing great.
“This is glamorous parenting,” Asher mutters, throwing sheets in the washer.
“Very glamorous.”
“But worth it?”
“Always worth it.”
That evening, after dinner and bath and books, we finally get Miles to bed.
“Three potty successes, one accident,” I tally. “I’d call that a win.”
“Definite win.”
We’re in our room, getting ready for bed, and I catch sight of us in the mirror.
Asher in sweatpants and an old t-shirt. Me in pajamas, hair in a messy bun, face clean of makeup.
We look tired. Content. Happy.
“We’re really doing this,” I say.
“We really are.”
“The whole domestic thing. Parenting. Building a life.”
“Yep.”
“And you’re happy? Truly?”
He comes up behind me, wraps his arms around my waist. “Look at us. Really look.”
I do. We’re reflected in the mirror—just two people who’ve been through hell and found their way back.
“I see it,” I whisper.
“This is everything I never knew I wanted. And now that I have it, I’m never letting go.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Every morning, every chaotic afternoon, every exhausting evening. All of it. Forever.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough.”
We go to bed, and I fall asleep thinking about mornings.
All the mornings we have ahead.
Waking up together.
Starting each day as a family.
It’s mundane and ordinary and absolutely perfect.
And I never want it to end.
Reader Reactions