There is little I love more than a lazy weekend at home. Okay, so it’s never lazy here, but at least we finally attain something like borderline sanity. It’s the simple things (most of which didn’t even seem photo-worthy at the time):
Rob hangs out with both boys on the couch
while I tackle a few loads worth of clean but unfolded laundry. The piles sit in laundry baskets or in the dryer for days sometimes and then when I find the inspiration to finally put it all away, there’s typically a lone-sock epidemic that looks something like this:
The smaller the sock, the greater its tendency to roam solo, I’ve found, so Owen’s tiny feet have added extra chaos to my disorganized laundry-doing. (And no, those two red ones don't make a pair: One is Owen's; one is Will's.) I've actually reserved a special place in one of Owen's drawers for lone socks waiting to be reunited with their mate. It's been a long wait for many of them.
Owen joins me on the bed for some folding, and we play peekaboo with each of the larger articles.
Will and Owen and I have a picnic in our front lawn while we watch Rob, up on a ladder, replacing some rotting trim. We talk to our neighbor and her granddaughters, also enjoying some autumn lawn time, and Will does some hammering and ladder-climbing himself.
Rob and Will play tackle football on the living room floor as they watch Georgia crush Auburn. It’s the longest TV watching Will ever does but it’s at least three times as aerobic as typical playtime.
Rob and Will rake leaves in the front yard and then sit a while in the pile they’ve created.
We take a family walk around the lake at Cooper Creek Park and Will does about a mile of it on foot. We let him set the pace: He and I running in 20- and 30-yard bursts until Will calls “STOP!” and we look back at Rob pushing Owen in the double stroller. “Dad, you’re kind of slow,” Will says each time. “Mama, let’s run again.” And we do.
On the drive back from the park, Will proposes a game of I Spy. He and I take turns spotting the typical colors. Then he decides to let the game evolve. “I spy something bricky. It’s that house!” “I spy something baby. It’s you, little guy (pointing and laughing at Owen). “I spy something hairy. It’s you!” This time he's pointing at me.
Throughout the day, all three of us periodically work on eliciting Owen’s beautiful laughter. Brisk head-rubbing on the belly is a sure-fire technique:
Quiet time ends with a nap one day:
And no nap the next, but miraculously we survive the whole sleepless day cheerfully – a first.
And just before clean-up time (and the launch of bed-time rituals), we agree that Will can sing one last song for us as he and Daddy play guitar. Master-staller sings a seven-minute half-comprehensible ballad about Winnie the Pooh being chased by honey bees, strumming his guitar all the while.