Saturday Shuffles And The Sweetness Of Routine

It is just after five o’clock on a Friday afternoon, and the little blue house on Sycamore Street is currently vibrating with the sound of Noah’s 'dinosaur stomps.' He is currently in his favorite velociraptor pajamas—yes, even though the sun is still up—and Emma is tucked away in the corner of the living room, her tongue poking out in concentration as she adds manes to a herd of horses on the back of yesterday's math homework. Mark should be through the door any minute now, likely smelling of wood and the summer heat, and I am sitting here with my robin-egg-blue journal, trying to catch my breath and my thoughts before the evening rush begins.

Today didn't involve the hardware store or the smell of sawdust at Mr. Miller’s, but it felt productive in that quiet, soul-deep way that only a Friday can. I spent the morning in my 'candle studio'—which we all know is just the reclaimed corner of the laundry room—pouring a fresh batch of 'Cedar Morning' for a few Etsy orders that came in overnight. There is something so incredibly grounding about the weight of the wax and the precise measurement of the fragrance oils. It’s a small financial victory, surely, but it’s more about the self-worth that comes from creating something from scratch and sending it out into the world.

I managed to get three miles in this morning before the humidity really settled over Cedar Falls. I am training for the Harvest 5K in October, and let me tell you, friends, some days those miles feel like a victory lap and other days they feel like a negotiation with my own joints. Today was a bit of both. I found myself running past Joanne’s house, and there she was in that unmistakable pink bathrobe, deadheading her petunias like it was a sacred ritual. She waved a gloved hand at me, and I felt that little spark of community that makes this town feel like home.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the rhythm of my marriage and how Mark and I are hovering right around that nine-year mark. When you’ve been together this long, and the days are filled with construction deadlines and bookkeeping and toddler tantrums, it’s easy to let the 'us' part of the equation slide into the background. But as I watched him leave at 5:30 this morning, leaning down to kiss my forehead while I was still half-asleep, I felt a rush of that same desirability I felt back in our first year. It’s different now—sturdier, less about the flash and more about the foundation—but it is there.

I had a quick coffee with Megan at the bakery earlier. She was busy prepping for the Saturday rush, but she let me sit on a flour sack in the back while she braided dough. We talked about our pickleball game tomorrow morning. I’m still not very good, honestly, but the movement makes me feel alive and capable. We talked about the balance of it all—how we spend so much time pouring into our children and our businesses that we sometimes forget to pour back into ourselves. She reminded me that my 'Lucy’s Little Light' venture isn't just a side hustle; it's a reflection of my own growth.

There was a moment this afternoon when Biscuit, our ever-faithful golden retriever, decided to 'help' me with the laundry by sitting directly on the pile of warm towels I had just folded. Normally, that might have frustrated me, but today I just laughed. I sat down on the floor next to him and let him lick my face. It was a reminder to slow down. We are so obsessed with being 'finished' or 'optimized' that we forget that the messy middle is where the actual life happens. My bank account might not be overflowing, but my heart feels remarkably solvent today.

Diane called while I was finishing the candle labels. She’s only forty minutes away, but she likes to check in before our big Sunday call just to make sure the kids are healthy. We talked about Emma’s drawing—Mr. Miller actually commented on one of her sketches I brought to the shop last week—and how Noah is convinced he can grow a real triceratops if he plants enough Cheerios in the backyard. Mom laughed and told me I was exactly the same at four, just with more ribbons in my hair. It’s funny how we see ourselves mirrored in our children, isn't it?

As I look at my reflection in the hallway mirror, I see a woman who is thirty-four and working hard to be the best version of herself. I’m not the same girl I was at twenty-five, the one I wrote to earlier this week, and I think I’m okay with that. There’s a strength in these shoulders that wasn't there before, born from carrying sleeping kids and heavy crates of hardware supplies. I feel beautiful not because I’m perfect, but because I am present. I am here, in my blue house, on my street, building a life that feels like mine.

Mark’s truck just pulled into the gravel drive. I can hear the engine cut and the heavy thud of the door. The 'dinosaur' is currently sprinting toward the front door to greet him, and Biscuit is barking with enough joy to wake the whole neighborhood. The quiet of the afternoon is ending, and the beautiful, chaotic noise of the evening is beginning. I’m going to go start the pasta and see if I can convince Emma to show her dad her latest masterpiece before she covers it in purple glitter.

Be kind to yourselves tonight, ladies. Look for the small victories in your own kitchen or your own backyard. Whether it’s a three-mile run or just remembering to take a deep breath when the laundry piles up, it all counts. We are all works in progress, and there is so much grace to be found in the trying. I’m going to go hug my husband and tell him about my day, and I hope you have someone to share your heart with tonight too.

I love you. — Lucy