Sundays.. OH baby, Sundays. All around the world people “Sunday” differently, but collectively it’s an agreement to rest, play, worship, be with family, and do the things you love. Football Sunday’s in America were one of the selling points to come back home. The atmosphere, food, and energy the day encompasses dig deep to the core of our childhood memories, reminiscent of a holiday. We’ve started our own pregame ritual by going to Central Park and running the cubs to expel all of their pent-up, “apartment kid”, energy. We pack the stroller with balls, blankets, really the entire apartment, and head to Sheep’s Meadow. I couldn’t ask for a better urban back yard. The kids run the entirety of the expansive green space, we picnic, play sports and then typically head to Tavern on the Green for a few bevies before the game. David steady checks the scores on his phone, I bitch he’s on his phone, repeat, and then we go home for all the beautiful football nostalgia we’ve yearned. It never fails that the kids still go 0-100 and tear up the house like a bunch of frat kids, but we relish in Americana Sundays. I cook, they watch, and David paces and yells. LOVE IT! I love being H.O.M.E.
P.S GO SEAHAWKS!