The rest of the week is insane, but Sunday is my day off. No workout, rest, relax, recover. Yoga is the answer. Gardening, or rather, yanking weeds and dead stuff out of the gardens, is my therapy.
The local posse broke the cover to the sandbox yesterday. It was 9 years old, and one of these days the kids should have figured out they were too big to fall all over it. Plastic grown brittle by years of sunshine and rough-housing boys ... it was inevitable. Without a cover, the sandbox must be officially retired.
For the last several years I have added my collection of shells found on east coast beaches to the white sand. One of my favorite ways to spend a summer afternoon was to pull up a beach chair, bury my toes into the warm sand, and open up my notebook and write away the hours while my boys play in the yard, or take off to play with their friends. I must admit the loss of my beachfront property has me in a bit of a funk.
So I spent much of the afternoon planning, visualizing more raised beds for vegetables in the back, more perennials and rose bushes in the front. More work, more money, but also more therapy. Big dreams for now, but we shall see what actually comes to pass. Once school is out, there's no stopping me, except for the money part.
It might be easier just to get a new sandbox.