Yesterday, I picked up the kids at art camp and we came home to roost. I poured watermelon and its juices, strawberries and ice into the blender and whirred it until it was an icy treat.
The kids ate cured meats in front of the television, until it was time for two of them to become my sous-chefs in the kitchen and we warmed the cauliflower soup I’d made on Sunday and made a couscous salad for dinner.
Eliana had to take the flowers from Saturday night’s party – pink gerber daisies and white roses – and make the table elegant. Candles to light, too. All the plates had to match. And when we sat down to eat, it was enough.
Later, the five of us piled into the old minivan and made our way to yoga. Our mats on the floor in the studio: child, parent, child, parent, child. Alternating in the way that every child had a parent to lean on or sidle up next to and they knew if they grew bored, they had only to slip out of the room quietly to meander on their own.
It was late when we finished and still hot out, but the kids were hungry. We sat at a picnic table in front of the ice cream shop as the setting sun turned the sky pink.
Last week, Asher’s rendition of a Taoist mixed-media creation inspired his teacher to talk with me about the meaning of life and how to find others on the same spiritual quest. A late-night drunk conversation over the weekend led to illumination and a possible open door for a client. On Sunday, I finally returned the things I never should’ve bought to Nordstrom Rack.
A day in the life …