By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
On Saturdays I make muffins.
Throughout the week, my daughter has the usual hurried bowl of cereal before school. But on weekends, I bake muffins for her. It’s simply a rhythm we’ve fallen into. Perhaps it’s because Saturdays finally afford the time, or perhaps it’s my small attempt to make the weekend feel just a little more special.
If I’m lucky, I get to sleep late on Saturdays. Well — “late” is relative. For me, it simply means later than I sleep during the week. Even then, I rarely get as much extra rest as I’d like, mostly because while my dog would happily remain tucked beneath the covers all morning, my cat feels quite strongly that if he is awake and beginning his day, I should be too. He makes his position known with an insistent serenade until I surrender.
Once I’m up, I head to the kitchen to start the muffins, and before long I hear the traditional Saturday morning announcement drifting from my daughter’s room. In a sing-song voice, she declares that she is ready to get up. This is my husband’s cue to go in, tell her good morning, give her a hug, and linger for a while as she recounts the previous night’s dreams or whatever pressing topic currently occupies her mind.
Eventually, she makes her way to the kitchen, hair gloriously disheveled, to collect her morning hug from me. Then, being the thoroughly modern child she is, she settles in with her tablet while I finish preparing breakfast.
The rest of the day can unfold in any number of ways. If we have no particular plans, it’s often filled with a blend of video games, television, and perhaps an ATV ride if the weather cooperates. If it’s especially warm, there’s always the possibility of swimming, though we aren’t quite to that point in the year yet. At least not for my daughter and me. My husband, strange bird that he is, already took his a polar plunge several weeks ago.
Unfortunately, Saturdays do include one rather dreadful tradition: hair washing day.
Neither my daughter nor I are particularly fond of it. For me, it’s simply a nuisance. For her — with enough hair for three or four people — it is an epic undertaking. There is the washing, the conditioning, and then the theatrical performance that is detangling. She inherited my tender-headedness, and we both suffer for it. Then comes the drying, which takes ages due to the sheer abundance of hair. I often call her a watermelon because no matter how much water you squeeze from it, there always seems to be more.
There are usually chores mixed in somewhere too. Laundry to fold, dishes to wash, or some household project my husband decides to tackle. Even when we begin the day with no agenda at all, life has a way of presenting something that needs doing.
Still, we treasure the Saturdays that arrive mostly empty.
Our weekdays are packed tight with work, school, homework, dinner, showers, and all the ordinary obligations that fill a family’s hours. By the time everything is finished, it’s simply time for bed. Sundays, though wonderful, carry their own structure — alarms set for church, schedules to keep, routines to follow.
But Saturdays are different.
On those rare open Saturdays that stretch before us with endless possibility, we do what we can to enjoy them. Sometimes I catch myself scrolling through social media, seeing the elaborate family outings and carefully curated adventures other people seem to provide. I wonder if we are doing enough. I worry that my daughter might one day look back and find her childhood lacking in grand memories because I was folding laundry while her father worked on some project around the house.
But then I remember this:
Childhood is rarely built from grand gestures alone.
It is built from the small, faithful things.
It’s racing each other in video games and laughing as we gang up to sabotage her daddy. It’s wrestling with the dog. It’s building blanket forts in the living room. It’s sleepy Saturday hugs and stories told before breakfast.
And on her Saturday mornings, Lord willing, there will be muffins.
Prose and Possibilities 