Letting go of the old weekend

I used to measure weekends by miles hiked, beers tasted, and how little I accomplished. Now a good weekend is one where everyone naps at the same time and I drink a full cup of coffee while it's still warm.

The old weekend isn't coming back. Not in the same form. But there's a new kind of richness in the small rituals: the walk to the park, the bath-time songs, the way he grips my finger like it's the only thing keeping him on Earth.

Letting go is a practice. Some days I miss the freedom. Most days I wouldn't trade this for anything.