There’s a law in our house. It’s an unspoken, sacred, and frankly non-negotiable law.
Weekdays are for toast. Weekdays are for oatmeal. Weekdays are for the frantic, “just-eat-something-we’re-late” granola bar.
But Saturday? Saturday is an event. Saturday is a celebration. Saturday is, and always will be, Donut Saturday.
And there is no one on this planet who understands the profound importance of this day more than #henry.
The kid has an internal clock calibrated to sugar. He wakes up not with a “good morning,” but with a “It’s DONUT SATURDAY!” declaration. He’s out of bed, shoes on (usually on the wrong feet), and rattling the doorknob before my coffee has even finished brewing.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Because Donut Saturday isn’t just about the food. It’s about the ritual.
It’s about the drive to the little bakery on Main Street, the one with the glowing neon “OPEN” sign. It’s about the bell that jingles when we walk in, and the warm, sugary-yeasty-cinnamon wave that hits you in the face. It’s pure, unfiltered happiness in air form.
And then, there’s The Choice.
Henry stands in front of that glass case like he’s studying the Mona Lisa. His nose is pressed so hard against it, he leaves a perfect little smudge.
To a four-year-old, this is the most important decision he will make all week.
Will it be the classic chocolate frosted? The maple bar with the single stripe of bacon? The blueberry cake donut?
No. It’s always the same. He points one slightly sticky finger. “That one, Daddy. The sprinkle one.”
The lady behind the counter knows him. She slides the pink-frosted, rainbow-sprinkled masterpiece into its own little white paper bag, and hands it over like a trophy.
We don’t even make it back to the car. We sit on the little bench outside.
And then, the magic.
He takes that first bite.
His eyes go wide. He makes this little “mmmm-hmmm-mmm” sound, a hum of pure, unadulterated bliss. He doesn’t just eat the donut; he experiences it.
This, right here, is why Donut Saturday is always a lip smacking good day.
It’s the sound of him frantically trying to get every last sprinkle. It’s the little-kid focus, where the entire world melts away, and all that exists is him and this perfect circle of fried dough.
Within 60 seconds, he is a Jackson Pollock painting of frosting. He has sprinkles on his chin. He has a glaze mustache. He has a dot of pink on his eyebrow that I know will still be there at 3 PM.
He looks up at me, crumbs all around his mouth, and gives me that giant, gap-toothed, sugar-fueled grin.
That’s it. That’s the good day.
It’s not just a donut. It’s a pause button. It’s 15 minutes of pure, sticky, uncomplicated joy. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the best things in life are simple, sweet, and leave you with a perfectly “lip smacking” good memory.
Long live Donut Saturday. Long live Henry.
