It is our four-seasons ritual. We do it in the summer when it's hot. We do it in the winter when it's not. And always in the springtime, always in the fall. In woolen undies, pink pajamas, and with nothing on at all. The ritual happens in all weather and for all state- and church-mandated occasions.We do it, our special holiday thing, though we can't always remember why. It's the thing that defines our sacred family moments. It it our shared heritage, and as the youngest generation it is our birthright.
We spent this holiday weekend as we spent all holiday weekends: in a rented car, schlepping from parent's house to parent's house to parents' house. It's just what we do.
The upside, of course, was three separate Easter baskets for il Ducino. And more sugar than his two grown-up servants have been able to sleep off in three days. I'm enjoying the fact that the kiddo as yet has no idea what candy is. Or what presents are, for that matter. Next year, perhaps we'll have no such luck. This year it was all about the grandparents' cuddles, the sunshine just a little way's out of our socked-in town, and listening to the radio.
And the car. And baskets full of things. And the car.
Life -it's true!- is sweet.
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