I wake up in a bed without children, for the first time in ages. It's so unfamiliar to me I can't even place where I am, which bed I woke up in, what country we live in. The sun is up, but that's meaningless. What feels like 10am could be 5am, as the littlest ones know full well. Today it is 8am and the house is still asleep.

Two years ago this time we awoke to a Carolina beach. The parents asked for liquid coffee creamer, but all I could find in the extremely busy and equally limited town grocer was the powder stuff. I was given a slight disapproving eye, but we all used it anyway. Powder our coffee in the morning, sit on the balcony, and watch the hazy sun rise over the Atlantic. It was beautiful, and tasty, and all we had was time. No phones, no appointments, no clocks. Just time.

It's a minor injustice that I can't find liquid creamer anywhere on our current stretch of island. Yes, it speaks to our coffee addiction that milk just doesn't cut it and making the homemade Pinterest creamer wears one out eventually. I told him to leave and not come back without the powder stuff. I just need something, I said.

I'm done with milk in my coffee, it offers no memories.

Two-heaping teaspoons and I remember North Carolina. The powder on the rim of the mug. The way we woke before the children, how they waddled in all blurry. The smell of the ocean and the silence of happily exhausted humans, sitting side by side. We barely talk, breathing in together. Communion.

I remember you this morning, my family. Asher as a baby. Ella in a nightgown. Jack reading his book on whales. Walking on sand with my dad. Drinks with my sisters. Cousins holding hands.

My mug is filled with memories. My morning free from time.

I remember you.

At the beach

This morning I wake up early, not to soothe a crying baby or to fix breakfast for hungry children, but to sit by the ocean, with coffee in hand. I forget my Bible, don't have a notebook, my phone doesn't work, so I just sit. And squint. Because the sun reflecting off the water is too bright and too pure for my morning eyes.

(even now I hear the baby on the monitor, talking to himself in sing-song oohs and ahhs... I think he knows I'm writing and resting, so he gives me this time and sings to me instead)

The air is warm and the breeze is slight. People walk along the beach: couples and singles, grandparents and children. My dad is out there and I missed it again; he is an even earlier riser and I'm always just a step or two behind. He'll come back around, though, and I'll grab a kid or two and walk with him, up and down the beach with water and seashells tickling our toes.

We are on vacation - a term I rarely use and feels foreign to say. But yes, we are on vacation with my dad's family, even though the ocean feels more familiar than the parking lot we usually wake up to. I know Ireland is thousands of miles away still, but somehow I think if I can just get in the water and float on my back, the Atlantic will carry me straight home.