Sundays

     

     Sundays are the worst. I know people who love Sundays. For them, it’s a day that represents relaxation, pleasure, replenishment, joy, and maybe a small degree of angst as the work week begins again on Monday. They make the most of their day by reading the newspaper, drinking coffee, playing with their kids, touching up craft projects, perhaps even mowing the grass. These people go through their Sunday with set expectations for following Sundays and take for granted that they will be able to enjoy the day in the same way as they have always enjoyed it. I know these people.

     I hate Sundays. Sunday is a day when I wake up early and scramble to do everything I can to be as near two people, who are very independent, as I can without infringing on their personal space and wishes. It’s a day during which I try to remember all the things I wanted to talk about throughout the week and either didn’t find the right time to say it, or wanted to research something before I brought it up, or any number of reasons for not talking about it. It’s a day for hugging and kissing and brushing hair away from eyes, which isn’t a bad thing at all, but I find it to be very melancholy. Basically, I live Sunday as if I am dying the next day. In a way I do.

     During the week, home is full of sound. Squeaks and squeals, yells and song, bangs and knocks are all common place. I love the noise. I love it because I know it means living and learning. It means two people are in residence who finds life fascinating.  These people look at each day as a beautiful opportunity to continue their exploration of possibility. Such an affirmation of life is precious and reminds me to allow similar fascination to happen in my personal experiences. Sunday is when that joy ends. Home stops being noisy and busy. It stops being loud and bouncy. Kisses and hugs and hair go away and I’m left to see about finding a meal for one.

     Many times I haven’t had the will to bother cooking something healthy. More than once I have found myself on the couch with a bag of chips and a remote. Sundays are the worst, except when they’re not.

     This Sunday is the worst. Next Sunday, though, is the best. That Sunday is a day when I wake up early and scramble to get errands taken care of, projects touched up, laundry put away, and maybe I mow the grass.  I go grocery shopping and get everything I’m going to need to cook hearty and healthy meals, tasty lunches, snacks, and treats. I clean and put away, sort and organize, perhaps I unpack another box. Sunday is when two people come home who fill the room with noise, singing, dancing, banging, and clanging. They come home with all their life filling them and I’m reminded to allow mine to be full too.

     A time will come when these people won’t come home on Sunday or leave on Sunday. There will come a time when I won’t see them for weeks or months, possibly years, or perhaps never again. I know that time is ahead of me. So, I live on Sunday as if time is already here. I live as though there will never be another Sunday. I like living this way because it keeps me in the right now. I appreciate precious moments that some people take for granted and then find they regret. There is enough regret in my past. I don’t want to see any in my future. And so, Sundays are the worst.