I’d prepared clothes for Gabriel, my almost-four-year-old son, checked the things for seven-month-old Angelina and found an outing for the next day. I knew what would make each of them happy.

When my partner asked what I’d like to do, I answered with the children’s programme.

He clarified: “And you?”

I looked at the kitchen counter. The children’s happiness took up plenty of room in my day. Mine didn’t really have a space, however small.

A parent’s happiness can’t always wait

I love seeing them happy. A laugh from Gabriel can change a morning. But I’d started treating my own pleasures as something I’d return to later.

When the baby slept better. When getting out of the house was easier. When the house was tidy before evening.

There was always another condition. Meanwhile, I knew how to arrange a pleasant day without including much of what I liked myself.

I wasn’t looking for a new activity to succeed at. I mostly wanted hot coffee, a slice of fresh bread and a few pages of a book. Things ordinary enough for me to postpone easily.

Make room for pleasure in the middle of the real day

The next day, my partner took the children while I sat at the kitchen table. We simply made that small handover clear. I didn’t have to keep one ear available for every request.

The kitchen was still untidy. I didn’t wait to put it in order before sitting down. My coffee wasn’t the reward for finishing the housework.

I read a few pages. Not enough to claim I’d found time for everything. Enough to feel that this day also contained something I’d chosen for myself.

That doesn’t solve tiredness or an arrangement that asks too much. If there’s never room for me, the issue goes beyond the bread: we also need to reconsider what I carry and how we take turns.

But that morning, I didn’t want to turn this pleasure into a goal, with an ideal duration and a review afterwards. I could simply enjoy it.

Gabriel came back to show me a tower. I finished my sip before getting up. He didn’t have to make me happy, or understand everything this little pause meant.

I could love caring for my children and keep a taste for my own day. The fresh bread wasn’t waiting for them to grow up.