Breakfast

Sunday mornings we get up with the sun. We drag sleepy limbs out from under rumpled sheets, change diapers, dig out toys, make coffee, and eventually, we all converge in the living room. 

Slowly, one of the grownups lays the table: knives, spoons, jams, honey, butter, berries. We set out olive wood breadboards, colourful napkins, and bring a golden braided loaf to the table.  Coffee cups, glasses of milk, spilled cheerios, bread crumbs. These are our offerings to the week. This is our Sunday ritual.

This is one the one time in the week where I know we will be together, all of us round the table. With my husband's long hours and unpredictable schedule, and the general business of a young family, it's so grounding to have this one window of twenty minutes that we all know will happen.

They say that nomadic children like ours do well with strong family rituals. This loaf of bread, this quiet morning routine, this is something we will bring with us, wherever we live. This is something my husband makes time for, even if his work calls him away on a Sunday. This is something I can trust, something that I can count on in a life where I can't count on much. It's something that I love, even if my kids would just rather eat a bowl of cheerios.