I am so utterly in love with these boys of mine who tussle over the banana bread muffin batter, giggling, shoving, offering sticky cheeks to be kissed. And I am in love with this man of mine who makes me flatbread with caramelized onions + creme freche + flat iron steak, and a salad of micro greens when I come back from a forever long day.
Yes, yes I am.
His smile is a raft that buoys me up. His love is bedrock.
Some days we spend the whole day gone, sending texts back and forth, missing bedtimes, missing dinner. We encounter each other in the dark among the sheets. I wrap my arms around his back, and listen to the wooden shades clattering in the summer wind.
On the weekends we play french music and sing along. We fry bacon like it's going out of style. We have two double shots of espresso each, mine over milk. We make pancakes made with cornmeal and buttermilk in a cast iron skillet, and Sprout helps pour the batter while Bean sets the butcher block kitchen island with plates and carelessly folded napkins. Forks get strewn like pick-up-sticks. Syrup is amply doled out.
We're all about relishing the sweetness of these mornings, and after we're full we almost always go for a walk.
It always takes longer than we expect. Sometimes we get impatient. Usually I bring my camera. More likely than not there are either puddles or sticks, or some combination of both. The blackberries are hard green buttons on the brambles along the road, and the peonies along the edge of our neighbor's yard fill the air with the most lovely scent in the world. Sheep bleat. The boys chase each other and climb fences. We hold hands.
These moments happen in spite of the pace of things, or perhaps because of it. We make time. We always make the time for us.