I may have written before about my ambivalence toward Sundays.
It's really more of a Sunday afternoon problem. Sunday mornings are great. Even if you sleep in, there's usually a nice fat Sunday paper to look at and coupons to cut and crosswords to work on while you eat a late breakfast. It's still the weekend. What could be wrong?
But Sunday morning always turns into Sunday afternoon. Whether you are out after brunch or finishing up those nagging weekend chores or watching a game, the realization that the weekend is slipping away always intrudes. Monday looms like the shadow of a dark tower over the sunny Sunday afternoon. (Can you hear the dramatic music? Dum Dum DUM)
For me, it often hits around three o'clock, when I start to quiz the girls about whether they've done their homework. Every little piece of clutter I see begins to irritate me because I know that it all has to be picked up and put away so that the week can start again. The week will start again anyway, of course, but starting a Monday morning with the disarray of half-finished puzzles and not-quite-dry art projects and dishes from Sunday dinner congealing in the sink is somehow more Monday than I can handle.
I walked around the apartment in circles for about forty five minutes, picking up here and putting away there, cleaning tables and wiping counters, barking directions at the girls and generally ruining everyone's relaxed Sunday mood. Just so I wouldn't hate Monday so much. It's great when things are all about me and my need to control the world.
The backpacks are ready. Showers are done and clothes are put away. The arena is clear.
Was it worth it? I'm kicking myself now, because I hate ruining Sunday, but if we get out on time tomorrow morning, maybe I won't feel so bad.