Nostalgia for the present.

(Or the appreciation that the little moments of today become the memories of tomorrow.)

Every Saturday morning, I wake before Kaitlin and the boys. I dress quietly, hair still wild, eyes heavy, and yawn as I walk out to our Jeep. Depending on the season, the light is either just meeting the day or already at eye level, making me squint.

It's only a four-minute drive to the bakery, enough time to listen to one song. And for me, it’s the same one every Saturday morning: "Summer of '69" by Bryan Adams. Yes, it's very white/dad/cringe of me, but I don't care. Because I'm alone, I turn it up loud, and as it’s only the cows I might wake, the windows are down too.

My one difference with Bryan in what I believe to be an otherwise perfect pop song comes when he sings that 1969 "were the best days of my life." Because when I'm driving to the bakery every Saturday, these feel like the best days of my life (so far).

After a short chat with the baker, I set for home with a brown paper bag holding two warm donuts for the boys and two croissants for Kaitlin and I.. Often, I'll press repeat on the song and feel both joy and a pang of nostalgia for the present. Because I know this little ritual will be a fond memory one day. I know I'll miss it.

Everyone's usually up by the time I walk back through the door. The boys never remember to thank me; Kaitlin asks them to. I take my "driver’s tax"—a bite of their donut and a hug from them—then get the strawberry jam from the fridge while Kaitlin starts on the coffee.

Heaven.