This past weekend, my little family tentatively welcomed spring in the Pacific Northwest as a singular daffodil bloomed in our yard. I took off my shoes and socks and practiced yoga on the spongey grass, under the sun. The weekend before, it was snowing.
Emile climbed a tree. The kind whose branches beckon to children of all ages.
Giovanna ran here and there, too excited to walk, curls flying and diaper sagging.
To stay energized for full days of play, we nourished our bodies with colorful food and bountiful water.
(Red bell pepper stuffed with quinoa-sprouted hummus-sundried & fresh tomatoes-cilantro-etc. Lacinato kale massaged with EVOO and avocado, and tossed with sprouted fenugreek.)
I ran under the sunshine and trees, I shopped for a birthday present for a very best friend, I kissed my little family as many times as I could manage. I read children’s books, adult fiction and adult non-fiction. I laid in the sun and listened to my heart beat.
I don’t “live for the weekends,” but I have to admit, they’re pretty nice.