It’s Saturday. 5:15 am.

When I was young, I’d wake up this early so that I could watch Saturday morning cartoons.

Remember what that felt like?

My little brother and I would huddle right in front of the TV as it sang “One Saturday Morning.”

When the sun started to come up, in the warmer months of the year, it would start to smell like fresh cut grass while we watched. The smell would waft through the screen door.

The neighborhood would slowly wake up. It would start with silence and slowly add a noise at a time. We’d hear birds, then cars, then lawn mowers down the street.

We’d watch for hours, unless we had soccer games, in which case, we’d watch as long as we could waiting around in our little YMCA soccer uniforms.

We didn’t know it at the time, but these were core memories. These were little moments in a heaven we wouldn’t understand until we were adults.

And now, my kids wake up to watch Saturday morning cartoons. Sometimes they watch in their little uniforms while waiting on their games.

I didn’t know that Saturday morning cartoons could be so safe. So necessary. So quintessentially childhood.

But here I am, 5 am, reminiscing over childhood cartoons.

LIKE A REAL GROWNUP.

Now, I’m off to do the games on the back of the cereal box.