I believe in Saturday mornings.
Show me someone who doesn’t enjoy Saturdays, and ill show you someone who probably doesn’t like puppies, or ice cream, or warm weather.
It’s hard not to like a Saturday.
Growing up, Saturday was every kid’s favorite day. Saturdays meant no school, cartoons all morning, and pizza for dinner. What more could you ask for.
All of my favorite things happened on Saturday mornings.
The wind ruffled through the leaves on the trees on Saturday mornings, families played in the park across the street on Saturday mornings, cars zipped by on their way to Manhattan Bagel on Saturday mornings, and while all of these everyday things happen on days other than Saturday morning, to me it felt extra special because it was Saturday morning.
When I was younger, waking up early on Saturday morning was one of my favorite things to do. Saturdays to me meant mom cooking a huge pancake breakfast. They meant soccer and football games. They meant grandma and grandpas house.
Now that I’m older my Saturday mornings have grown up just a little with me. The wind still blows through the leaves the same way, and I still have football in the mornings. Cartoons have now been substituted for Netflix binges, and my mom’s pancakes have been replaced with McLanahans breakfast sandwiches.
On Saturday mornings I’m lucky if I wake up earlier than 12 p.m., but those few Saturday mornings I manage to wake up in time for, I feel suddenly transported back to those younger days when I would sit by my window in my little green room and listen to the silent clamor that captured my interest, and the excitement that filled me knowing that it was Saturday.
Now every time I sit in my room and hear the leaves quietly rustle, before they are drowned out by the sounds of students starting their day, I remember all those wonderful Saturday mornings.