I love Sundays…in theory.
Sundays to me represent sleeping in and rolling out of bed when I can no longer stand the sunlight on my face.
Sundays mean having a bottomless cup of hot coffee in my hand.
Sundays mean leisurely reading the Sunday paper and pouring over the ads, not because I want to buy something, but because it’s like window shopping in my pajamas.
Breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and bacon would be served at an hour much closer to brunch.
If and when I decided to leave the house, it would be to stroll through a nearby Farmers Market or hang out in a bookstore.
I can’t remember the last time I did any of those things.
Sundays now? They are no different than any other day.
Our three year old and newly minted six year old don’t really care that it’s Sunday.
They still bounce in our room at 6:30am, demanding breakfast.
They are ready to be entertained and for them, that does not mean sitting around reading the paper.
It’s only 9am and the living room is already littered with pet shop figurines, monster trucks, and legos.
This crazy struggle between Sundays past, present, and future plays out each and every week.
I am well aware that the tables will soon turn. Our Sundays will too quickly transform into Sundays spent coercing certain teenagers to get out of bed. Sundays where we will have to enforce family time, because they will have “better things to do”.
Still, I can’t help wishing that a very trustworthy babysitter armed with a tank full of energy would let herself in one early Sunday morning, have breakfast ready for our early risers, and whisk them off to the park.
As for my husband and I?
Well, we would roll out of bed at our leisure, sip some hot coffee, and read the paper.
In peace. Just once.