Farmer's Market Dream

I dream of Farmer's Market mornings:  waking early, hopping on my bike, cruising along, free, and gathering up beautiful, local greens that spill out of my well-worn canvas bag.  Picking up a dozen fresh eggs, maybe grabbing myself a pastry and coffee, beating the crowd.  Then winding my way back home, peaceful and ready to meet the energy that awaits.

That's the dream.  The reality is that I can't easily slip out.  (John wakes the second I get up, which means the others do, too.)  Nor do I have the heart.  My short-sighted self thinks, "How can I deprive my kids from all the beauty and the education of the Farmer's Market?"  So we all go.  Clara, John and I bike, while Jeff takes the others in the car so he can add on some errands.

Here is a retelling of our family "Farmer's Market" trip:

We play pop-up tag in a nearby field.

We stare at the balloon man.

We invent a game that involves a wad of finger-knit.

We navigate some nervy time by the creek.

We enjoy a long trip to the bathroom.

We play hide-and-go-seek in the courtyard across the street.
(She's behind the pot.)

We throw pennies in a fountain.

And finally, I glimpse longingly at some radishes.

I did make it home with a dozen eggs and some pricey asparagus, but also with my dreamy idea of the Farmer's Market still intact.