Charlie wailed before getting on the bus this morning, “Baby gets to stay home all day with you!” He was anxious about his class trip to the bowling alley. Bowling is scary when it’s the unknown.
I think Charlie’s dream day would be French toast and sausage for breakfast, nowhere to be, unlimited Xbox, GoGurts for lunch, all the neighborhood kids showing up to play in the afternoon, and altruistically passing out candy to everyone in sight. Charlie is a benevolent six-year-old. He wants to give everything away.
Truman’s dream day would include Grandma, train sets, and hummus. He’s three, so most days are dreamy.
My dream day could take many forms. Napping on the beach. Hiking in some Northern European country. Walking through a museum or a historic neighborhood at my own pace. Reading under my down comforter. Lunch at Copper Onion and dessert somewhere, eating something lemony and buttery with lots of whipped cream. Going to a writing workshop. Seeing a friend and spilling our lives to each other. Taking a walk at the cabin.
The last few days have felt pretty perfect. Making beds, folding laundry, cooking food, cleaning up, walking to the park, writing, buying groceries, reading, talking to the thirteen-year-old, squeezing the six-year-old, watching the three-year-old play trains, patting the bed next to me and sitting with Jack who is calm and sweet and happy again.
It’s awfully nice to do normal things and appreciate that they are lovely and boring.
Describe your perfect day, please. I want to know.