We had a slow family Saturday. And I just want to pause. And breath it in. And remember today. For all it was, in all its slowness. The way we meandered toward bedtime.
I want to remember the way we sank backwards into the afternoon. The boys had short naps (or didn't nap at all) and we wandered into the backyard.
We took the time to practice the art of blowing bubbles. I didn't realize, before having a toddler... how many things have to be taught. And stealing a moment to teach the practice of blowing slow and steady to watch a dandelion dance or a bubble form... well, that's a privilege reserved for parents.
I want to remember the way today was just ordinary. Oliver, with arms outstretched grabbed lemons with two hands, while I held him up over my head. While the boys played, I worked lemon juice into our diapers sunning in the yard. Cloth diapers are a thing in our house. And nothing bleaches a diaper faster than lemon juice and sunshine.
Milo supervised from his perch under the lemon tree, kicking bare feet in the afternoon sun, while chewing on his sipppy, water dribbling down his chin.
Oliver made soup. And coffee. And spaghetti.
Springtime pollen coated everything. And when lemons that were being thrown into the gully behind our fence collided with evergreen trees, clouds of pollen floated down. Even baby feet were yellow with pollen by the time we headed inside.
Our muddy toddler was stripped nakey and rinsed off in the backyard with the garden hose before being burritoed in a towel and carried to the tubby.
Where he was joined shortly thereafter by his pint sized best friend. Because brothers stick together (our motto of the week).
I want to remember today. For all it was, in all its slowness. The way we meandered toward bedtime. Because in all of it's ordinary-ness, it was precious. And three weeks from now, I won't likely remember today specifically, it will blend into the blur that was March. And three years from now, I wont remember March specifically, it will blend into the blur that was Spring in 2016.
Oh that Matt and I would remember to give ourselves and the boys the gift of slow days. And that we would store up these ordinary memories that make our lives so full.