The shortness of Sundays
By Karrie McAllister
Mondays are usually pretty long for me. We’re usually swamped with the big mess of the weekend and the luring stress of what lies ahead for the rest of the week.
Tuesdays are rather ho-hum. Wednesdays are always a struggle because we’re trying so hard to get over the hump of the week.
Thursdays are spent attempting to clean up the mess we’ve been putting off for the past three days, before the weekend comes again.
Fridays are rather fun, and Saturdays drag on because usually means it’s time to do some work around the house, in the house, or trying to think of reasons to get out of the house so we don’t need to do any work.
But Sundays are faster than a mom running after a child holding scissors in one hand and a lock of his sister’s hair in the other. They are the one day each week that my family spends real quality time just being a family, and I just can’t get enough of it.
For me, it’s always been this way. The Sundays of my youth were spent at a cottage on a lake, far, far away from anything but a bait shop. We took hikes and boat rides and dreaded the long car ride back home to where real life and the work week were waiting for us.
When I was older, we didn’t travel to that cottage so often, but that didn’t change the quality of our togetherness. It’s strange how some memories stand out in your mind, and for no real reason, there is one particular Sunday morning that I’ll never forget.
We lived far from the road, and because the weather was rather sunny that morning, I walked all the way out to get the newspaper. Walking back up to the house, I heard the sounds of my Grandfather playing polkas on the piano, which meant that for certain my mom and Grandma were dancing around the kitchen and that I’d join in as soon as I put down the paper. And that’s what happened.
When Grandpa’s fingers were tired, the three women in the house set to making a big breakfast for everyone, but not before putting on Patsy Cline’s Greatest Hits, an album that would definitely be included in the soundtrack of my life.
“I fall to pieeeeeces…” we sang as we fried bacon and cracked eggs.
For me, those random memories are the most precious, and the ones I strive so hard to give my children.
Last Sunday at our home was one of those memory making days. Sunny skies, newspapers, and bacon, it started out perfectly and just got better as the day went on. We played outside, visited with neighbors, ate popsicles and just really enjoyed our time together as a family. That doesn’t happen often enough anymore.
That Sunday, we stayed out all day until we cooked hotdogs and marshmallows on the campfire for dinner. And when there were more marshmallows on my kids’ faces than in their tummies and the fire was starting to die down, I looked at those sticky faces and hoped they would remember the fun day we had.
But for all the fun, I was kind of sad that the day was over; I wished my Sunday would never end.
I wished it would last forever—or at least a month of Sundays.
Mondays are usually pretty long for me. We’re usually swamped with the big mess of the weekend and the luring stress of what lies ahead for the rest of the week.
Tuesdays are rather ho-hum. Wednesdays are always a struggle because we’re trying so hard to get over the hump of the week.
Thursdays are spent attempting to clean up the mess we’ve been putting off for the past three days, before the weekend comes again.
Fridays are rather fun, and Saturdays drag on because usually means it’s time to do some work around the house, in the house, or trying to think of reasons to get out of the house so we don’t need to do any work.
But Sundays are faster than a mom running after a child holding scissors in one hand and a lock of his sister’s hair in the other. They are the one day each week that my family spends real quality time just being a family, and I just can’t get enough of it.
For me, it’s always been this way. The Sundays of my youth were spent at a cottage on a lake, far, far away from anything but a bait shop. We took hikes and boat rides and dreaded the long car ride back home to where real life and the work week were waiting for us.
When I was older, we didn’t travel to that cottage so often, but that didn’t change the quality of our togetherness. It’s strange how some memories stand out in your mind, and for no real reason, there is one particular Sunday morning that I’ll never forget.
We lived far from the road, and because the weather was rather sunny that morning, I walked all the way out to get the newspaper. Walking back up to the house, I heard the sounds of my Grandfather playing polkas on the piano, which meant that for certain my mom and Grandma were dancing around the kitchen and that I’d join in as soon as I put down the paper. And that’s what happened.
When Grandpa’s fingers were tired, the three women in the house set to making a big breakfast for everyone, but not before putting on Patsy Cline’s Greatest Hits, an album that would definitely be included in the soundtrack of my life.
“I fall to pieeeeeces…” we sang as we fried bacon and cracked eggs.
For me, those random memories are the most precious, and the ones I strive so hard to give my children.
Last Sunday at our home was one of those memory making days. Sunny skies, newspapers, and bacon, it started out perfectly and just got better as the day went on. We played outside, visited with neighbors, ate popsicles and just really enjoyed our time together as a family. That doesn’t happen often enough anymore.
That Sunday, we stayed out all day until we cooked hotdogs and marshmallows on the campfire for dinner. And when there were more marshmallows on my kids’ faces than in their tummies and the fire was starting to die down, I looked at those sticky faces and hoped they would remember the fun day we had.
But for all the fun, I was kind of sad that the day was over; I wished my Sunday would never end.
I wished it would last forever—or at least a month of Sundays.
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