Waking up on a fine summer weekend morning to the sounds of DH and Sprout making breakfast in the kitchen. They are talking in low voices but every so often one or the other or both of them erupt with laughter, then Sprout or DH shushes the other so they don't wake me. But I can hear them, the pair of them, talking about everything and nothing, clinking my mother's pancake batter bowl and DH's grandmother's cast-iron pan. After breakfast they will plunk in the living room and I will clean up the mess, thanking my stars the entire time for it all: that they have such a great, easy relationship where they both really respect the other; that Sprout is growing into a respectful, outward-focused, gentle, fierce young man; and all the other ways I lucked out with this pair. You have to believe me when I say I clean that disastrous kitchen almost every Saturday morning with a heart full of gratitude.