Sunday mornings can be aggravating. That’s when my brain starts juggling, filtering, and amalgamating ideas about this here blog, despite appearances to the contrary: I scroll through Facebook and Twitter, check e-mail, and read articles in various places online and on paper, rummaging for inspiration. None of this makes me appear to be “working,” although working is what I lay claim to. The brain revs up, stalls several times, and eventually begins to whir. It’s resistant, though, to anyone else’s demands.
The hub-sand tends to sleep late, which I don’t begrudge him… that is, until it starts heading on 10 am or so. Then begrudgement (is that a word?) creeps in and frustration begins to build, particularly as the little guy hovers, asking when the Peabody Museum will be open and when it will be noon and how long is it until the afternoon now, or wanting me to take on the role of a Harry Potter character in a scenario in which Ewoks come to Hogwarts.
“What does Hermione say when Wicket and Cricket” (the Ewoks) “shoot a Death Eater from a launcher?” he wants to know. And ordinarily I’d come up with something incredibly witty and inventive in response (“Wow!”) but when I’m trying to focus on other things, Hermione and her ways elude me.
“Can you tell Papa that it’s almost 10 o’clock and Mama says he should get up?”
The little guy tromps upstairs, comes down again, tells me Papa was already awake, and then shoves a piece of construction paper in my face that has the letters “T” and “V” scribbled on it.
“No. You watched Star Wars last night and were up late.”
What are all these mounds of toys for, I want to know, if not to play with?
On Sundays, mornings progress far more swiftly into afternoons than on other days of the week. Time management is far trickier. All the things we vow to accomplish battle fiercely with our entitled Sunday feelings about me-time, leisurely breakfasts, self-refilling cups of hot caffeinated beverages, and humorous public radio programs. In the meantime, piles of laundry, child-generated messes, and dirty dishes beget more of the same: they all redouble their efforts today because they know we won’t have time to redouble ours once The Week begins.
Sunday is a blessing and a curse.
Once the boys have left and silence tingles my ears I find my own distractions. The drip of the kitchen sink, the tick of a clock somewhere, the whoosh of a passing car. On Sundays I pursue a perfect cup of tea that too often evades me, either by sitting out too long or not steeping long enough before I pour the milk in. On Sundays I have plenty of time to get it just right before I take a few sips, abandon it, and begin again.
Sometimes I find myself wondering. About what I thought about all week; what irked or pleased or tickled me; what crazy, spontaneous, wonderful thing my child said that set me giggling. Sometimes I weigh my worries and dismiss or pocket them for later.
On Sundays my eyes are drawn to all the things that need picking up: the sofa cushions a munchkin has thrown to the floor; the pots, pans, and wooden spoon on the yoga mat; the art supplies on the dining room table. The newspaper must be read, the ukelele played, the decodable books decoded. How much will I manage to make happen before the white-grey sky darkens and the lush, leafy trees take on the appearance of shadows? Is there a universal time of day when we all let go of those last hopes for Sunday?
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