I was very, very tired this morning and went back to bed instead of going to yoga. We'd had a lovely but busy weekend and I woke up exhausted.
I was feeling a little guilty about hanging around in my pajamas until my friend D. asked me what I'd done this week end. Before I'd finished the list (S. had two friends over for a twenty-four hour play date, I walked with D. to the library, out to lunch and then to soccer. On Sunday, we went to the market. I had a physio appointment, we took the kids to the park and then S. and I went for a walk...), I realized exactly why it was that I was so tired.
I gave myself permission to stay in my pajamas until late in the afternoon.
I was in a very good mood this evening. My spouse took D. out to hear some jazz and my friend H. came over with her new dog. We walked S. over to his friend's house (yes, I know it's a school night, but it's almost the end of the year and the boys wanted to watch Doctor Who together) and then strolled a bit before heading back to my house.
It was then that I realized that I felt like celebrating.
We had local strawberries with whipped cream and a bottle of ice wine we had saved from our trip last fall to Niagara on the Lake. We drank the wine in champagne flutes, because that's what you do when you celebrate.
It is only now, as I sit at the computer that I stop to articulate my reasons for celebrating. And I realize that I have too many too count.
My lovely neighbourhood.
My dog's joy in going for a walk.
My son's pride as he held the leash, directed us to his friend's house and greeted the kids he knew along the way.
The way both my sons light up when they see me.
Friends and family who love me.
The fact that I am alive, pain free and able to go for a walk with a dear friend on a hot summer evening.
And aren't fresh strawberries and whipped cream a good reason to celebrate, in their own right?