Even though my answer was immediate, it really got me thinking about how I spend my Sundays and how we spend our Sundays in the spirit of Ordinary Time.
The alarm goes off, it’s 6 AM.
It’s long run day. “Sleeping In” is not a term that exists in this house.
Well maybe it does for him, but for her? There is no rest for the weary.
Coffee is started, oatmeal is made. The day’s weather forecast is pulled up in an hourly format and analyzed ad naseum. Because everything matters. The wind. It’s direction. The humidity. The abundance of sunlight or lack thereof.
Twitter is checked, books are read. In an instant, my shoes are on and I’m out the door.
I’ll be back in a few hours, dear.
At some point, Marcus gets out of bed. What he does during these early hours is a mystery to me. The only evidence that he has set foot in the kitchen are the egg shells in the sink.
They are the modern-day trail of crumbs.
While I chase everything and nothing,
my husband the Grocery Shopping Fairy sources our weekly list. Because someone has to keep this family fed.
I come home. Sometimes we laugh at how terrifically bad I am at navigating the stairs. Sometimes we don’t.
We rinse the cilantro and put it away for later.
I shower and eat. Again. Because this is all about routine. And eating is the basis for all of them.
The routines, I mean.
I nap because the thought of keeping my eyes open for a second longer is unbearable. Sometimes I see it coming, sometimes I force myself into bed.
The end result is the same.
I wake-up and eat. Again.
The laundry goes into the washing machine, to check another thing off of the list. Our life is not all glamour, you know.
Fortified, I begin my work in the kitchen. Sometimes there is baking. Sometimes there is sauce-making. Some days the immersion blender becomes an extension of my arm.
None of the specifics really matter.
At some point Marcus joins me, to eviscerate jalapenos or wash dishes or both.
We listen to the radio station that I kind of dislike but am too lazy to change.
I pull together a salad dressing and we begin our final dinner preparations. I am happiest when they involve brightly-glazed stoneware or enameled cast iron.
Who wouldn’t be.
I eat, again. We feast together like it’s Thanksgiving and suddenly the dishes are done and put away again.
The DVR has been hard at work, albeit silently. Nestled amidst blankets on couches that have been well-loved, We reap the fruits of its labors.
The laundry needs folding, it’s time for bed.
There is never enough time and Monday morning is less than eight hours away.
What do your Sundays look like?
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