A poem about Saturdays

My son will wake me early
wanting his milk and cuddle.

I’ll hold him then we’ll stroll
down to the market
in the spare lot.

He’ll chomp on pluots, tomatoes,
and apricots, his favorite.
Using his 7 little teeth.
Juice running down his chin.

We’ll buy fresh eggs, lemon basil,
red and white carrots. Strawberries.
Maybe some chard.

I will eat a scone.
Sweet, crumbling, filling me.
Give my son a taste
as he toddles through the stalls.

Walking home. Uphill.
He sleeps. I sweat.
Hoping this activity
balances my proclivity
for eating pastries.

Swim lessons are next.
Daddy with the baby.
Me in the big pool
back and forth
back and forth
breathing left
right
left
right
then it is time to help Daddy
with the wet baby in the swim diaper.

Back home I can rest.
Or prep vegetables.
And dream of someday having
a Kitchen Aid
to keep alongside
my Dustbuster.