My Sweet Sundays

When I was young and single and living in New York, on Sunday mornings my favorite thing to do was go out and buy the New YorkTimes, a good cup of coffee and an amazing croissant from Patisserie Claude in the West Village. 

Then I'd go back home to my fifth floor walkup, sit in bed next to the window, devour my croissant in three minutes and read the paper for an hour or two before heading out on a bike ride. Even though I lived in a bustling neighborhood, my apartment was bright and quiet. It overlooked a big beautiful tree sprouting out of the backyard. The memory of the serenity, the peacefulness of my ritual still makes me smile.

But now I have a new Sunday morning ritual. Usually I'

Easy like Sunday morning.

m up between 5:30 and 6 a.m. – like I am every day – and after bottles and cuddles and books and our first breakfast, I take August and Finley on a walk in the stroller. We go to a local café where the ladies behind the counter know what I like – a latte, a muffin and a scrambled egg sandwich to bring home to Matt.

August, Finley and I sit at a table where their little legs dangle off the benches in their jammies and we share "cake" (i.e. an apple bran muffin) and talk to strangers and drink the cucumber water they serve at the café and watch the passers-by and greet the hipster customers who manage to straggle in early. It's doesn't provide the same kind of peace I enjoyed in the West Village, but it's a mighty sweet way to start a Sunday.