The boys met with friends at the splash pad this morning. This evening brought Beavers, their second week.
Amidst the commotion of our days, together we slice peppers and onions for dinner. My eldest boy carefully measures out oregano and thyme, the concentration on his face mounting as he counts up the half-teaspoons in his head. He crushes garlic and pours in tomatoes. It’s a joy to watch him help without me even needing to ask. My middle boys grates cheese, with as much ending up being eaten as he manages to get in the dish.
We eat together outside, the sun still beating down. The boys give me a running commentary on life. ‘Look, a shield bug!’, ‘Mum, did you see the squirrel?’, ‘what will we make with all these raspberries?’
After returning home from Beavers, the boys are full of stories of what they did, the other boys they made friends with and, ‘how many days ’til we can go again, Mum?’
My husband and I sit in the garden, the boys sleeping soundly upstairs. We share wine and chocolate, revelling in the day coming to a close around us. Silence is golden, so they say. And it is. The dog pants at my feet, his head seeking my fingers for a scratch behind the ears. He is glad the day is cooling down. I pick yet more raspberries to freeze. They’ve gone crazy this year.
Despite how busy the days are, there’s a rhythm to them that leaves me content. I wouldn’t change these days for anything.