I bought two bouquets of rhubarb at the market this morning, and the man I bought them from said to the people buying rhubarb behind me that he likes the hot days and more every year. They did, too. I wanted to say, “I do, too!” but they were all at least 40 years my senior, and I didn’t have many years to draw on to back that up.
Fridays are supposed to be cleaning days at my house, but who can clean when there is sun to soak up and sun to hide from and seeds to plant and plants to grow? So I went to my planner (yes, motherhood has turned me into someone who writes chores in their planner) and wrote “optional” next to things like “change sheets” and “scrub bathtub.” “Important” I noted next to “gardening” and “walk down to the market.” And I added “sit around for a while” and “drink iced tea.”
I love industrious days- days that scrubbing the bathtub seems like just the thing. But my favorite days are these ones: the days that nothing seems more important than puttering around in the garden, making Reed smile, and sitting and sitting and drinking glass after glass of cold peppermint tea.