The boys are outside at 6.30 a.m. They weave around the garden on their bikes after eating breakfast on the patio. We go to a church coffee morning with some of my favourite people. Long dresses and loose hair. Big jumpers. Croissants and black coffee.
Returning home I flick the oven on. I peel potatoes with a rhythm that is so familiar these days. I make cheese sauce and it reminds me of my father, as it always does. The patience with which he taught me to make it – over and over again until I finally mastered it.
An hour of Reading Eggs with the boys. A robin and a wren sit on the garden wall side by side in quiet company. Muttley sleeps in front of the fridge and he is, as always, in the way.
I watch my youngest tumble off his bike, still learning the art of balance after taking off his stabilisers. My middle boy helps him up, enveloping him in an enormous cuddle.
My phone buzzes softly on the kitchen worktop with another message. I leave it. It will still be there tomorrow. My middle boy brings me notes with clumsily sounded-out words.
We sit and eat together, plates piled high. Everyone loves a roast dinner.
Bath time – which is no longer all three boys in the bath together, but separate showers for growing boys who want their independence and space. I no longer have to get their pyjamas ready for them. I no longer need to wrap them up in towels. I no longer need to scrub their dirty faces. It’s bittersweet, this transition into boyhood. We tuck ourselves into my eldest’s bed to read together, the way we do every night. I try to enjoy it as much as possible, before they outgrow it and tell me they can read themselves.
Birds chirrup as the evening lazily rolls on. The grey sky splits for mere moments into pink and yellow; so fragile it looks to be painted with watercolours. Then grey consumes the heavens once more as the light fades from yet another day.
The simplicity of Sunday makes it my favourite day.