Last weekend, we spent Sunday with my parents who live a couple hours away from us and for the first time, possibly ever, we didn’t feel the need to rush home.
I sat out on the patio, read my dad’s latest copy of The Atlantic and just hung out, watching the girls swing and water the plants. “The Sundays” used to be a regular thing for me. I found the following passage in my notes from sometime in June.
That thing that happens on Sunday nights is happening now. When everyone is tucked soundly in bed and I’m pacing around thinking, “No! Not yet. The weekend can’t be over yet. Toniiiighhhht weeeeee are yoounngg” I know I should be going to sleep soon, too, as my alarm (or my girls) will be buzzing in a few more hours. Like watching the sunset, I am determined to see Sunday through to the end. Nope, that’s a lie. I’m not going to stay up that late. And yet…
The lunches are made. Backpacks have been stuffed with freshly laundered nap mats, blankets and back-up clothes. Outfits for tomorrow are waiting at my footbed with shoes and socks. Dog bowls are prepped. I’m showered and I’m 80% sure I know where my car keys are. By the looks of things, this night is wrapped. I just keep thinking about all that stuff I wanted to do instead of appreciating all the things I was able to do this weekend.
No longer having that pressure is such a gift.
And when Harper asked the next morning, “Do we have time for braids today?” and “Can we have puff pancake for breakfast?”, I am able to say yes.