Busy season is finally over yet another year. There have been so many I’ve lost count. It means the MoH is home before dark, and that it’s time for me to have an idea or two to plant in his mind before he heads for work in the morning about what we might do in the evening. It’s so he can begin to feel like there’s actually a day — or at least part of one — to be enjoyed even though it’s not quite the weekend.
Or maybe it was that we were celebrating the beginning of the weekend — the first of many to come before the next string of late nights and work-filled weekends.
So we went down to the beach just to sit, our faces turned to the warm sun. In sweatshirts and long pants, we may have looked a bit out of place since there were some late beach goers with kids playing in the sand. But it wasn’t warm. It usually isn’t down by the water at this time of year. Eyes closed against the brightness, it would have been easy to nod off, relaxing, listening to the near quiet that happens when one wave set has finished and the next hasn’t quite begun.
It wasn’t too long before the MoH decided he was hungry, so we folded our chairs and headed off to one of our usual Friday night take out spots. On the way home he began to list what tasks around the house he wanted to get done this weekend.
“I could,” he answered.
But he won’t. It’s hard to slow down after you’ve been so busy for so long. I know. It takes a while to find yourself again.