Mourning Sunday Morning
The kind where you wake up feeling the effects of the night before, so you stay in bed a bit longer. You look at your phone to check facebook to see if there is any evidence of your night, then your messages for a badly spelt ‘I love you’ text message to your friends (or worse).
Does anyone still do that? Texts are so last decade.
You put on some comfy clothes and make a bacon sandwich. You wash it down with a strong cup of tea and watch TV shows built for hangovers. You take it steady that day. You either decide to eat your way out of it; or call up your friends, start again, and get back on it!
Where you wake up naturally, slowly. You remember it’s Sunday, smile to yourself, relax and think: what shall I do with my day?
The type of Sunday where you are so tired from a busy week at work that you think you’ll just stay in bed this morning and then arrange to go out for lunch.
You can’t be arsed to cook…
You pick up the papers on the way home and a nice bottle of Red. You light the fire and snuggle up to watch a movie. Or perhaps in summer, you head to your nearest beer garden, a friend’s BBQ, or you sit in your own garden and enjoy the sunshine and a lovely cool drink.
The type where you know you can actually stay in bed as long as you want; then steal a cuddle with your husband. I’ll leave it there. Family read this.
It’s 6.30am the baby needs milk. You’re tired. You’re awake. It could be any day of the week. The routine is the same!
4am. Toddler crawls into your bed, takes up more space than your husband. You wake up with an elbow in your face and a teddy being bashed against your head.
7am. You wake up to the sound of siblings arguing over their toys; fighting over the TV channel; wrestling with sofa cushions. Chaos is spread in the form of ‘breakfast’ across the kitchen table.
Rushing out the house to take your kids to the rugby / football game. Remember their kit bag; change of clothes; drink. Remember to brush your hair, probably.
The list could go on…
Which Sunday do you love the most?
When quickly scrolling through my emails this morning, I saw what used to be my Sunday morning reading. An email from secret escapes trying to tempt me to book a lovely weekend away, or a luxury holiday.
Then Achica, oh the times I scrolled through that site buying things that technically I didn’t need, but would be nice. Those bed sheets are so beautiful and it’s such a good offer, I must buy them. There’s only two left, quick! Ooh look at those lovely plates, cushions… That lamp.
If you’re into interiors, you love a good lamp.
As I scrolled, I saw beautiful beaches in the Seychelles and lovely lamps in lounges that do not resemble a nursery. Mine used to look a bit like that.
Here is my lounge:
What has happened to my lovely lounge?
[You may well spot my ‘activity station’ play pen as mentioned in Mum skills from the 70’s. I got one. It was necessary.]
Sometimes my husband and I kid ourselves on a Sunday that it can still be normal. We go out a buy a copy of The Sunday Times, with all its supplements, and think we might get a chance to read it.
This is actually what happens to it:
It becomes paper for my daughter to tear up and play with, and then kindling for the fire.
We usually still cook a traditional Sunday roast. It’s almost religion in my family. And luckily it’s the baby’s favourite food (apart from sausages).
Still, I just can’t get the visions of those beautiful beaches out of my mind.
I can’t forget the craving I have to sit on a sun lounger, sipping a cocktail, before I go for a refreshing dip in the pool.
Damn you, secret escapes, for reminding me of the world out there.
I remember what relaxing used to feel like. I crave it. I mourn it. Because I literally can’t see a way to get that kind of life back. Not for many, many years.
It’s not that I want to send my daughter back; she is amazing, beautiful and very entertaining in her own right. I just wish I knew then, what I know now, and had really soaked up every special lazy Sunday and those relaxing days by the pool.
I know one day I’ll look back fondly at the Sunday mornings sat with my little cheeky Chica, watching her learn to walk, and listening to her giggles; the delight I feel when she says Mumma, Dadda, and Cat…
(And GAR… The word for most other things). “Yes that’s right, The GARden ” I say!
One day, when I’m ferrying her around here and there on a Sunday morning, or listening to her jibba jabba about how she really NEEDS this toy or THOSE shoes, I’ll think: wasn’t it nice when you just said ‘cat’!
And when she’s all grown up and moved away, I look forward to her visiting for Sunday lunch. She can sit and enjoy a glass of wine with us, and read the papers, instead of tearing them up in a heap on the lounge floor.
aah Sundays, may we make the most of each and every one.
You can also subscribe to my blog via the menu (near the top).