Lazy Sunday No More
Sunday mornings. Those two words bring to mind lounging in bed, reading the paper, sipping coffee, and brushing crumbs from the sheets. They bring to mind moments that I wish existed, but don't. Not any more.
When I was a child in Boston I remember watching the cartoons on channel WLVI 56 on Sunday mornings. That was after I had exhausted my favorite ones on other channels. I had a television in my room then, and on Sunday mornings I remember the sun passing by the window and me playing in and on the bed while the television was on. I would reluctantly get up and get dressed when the first movie came on, around twelve. My mother could tell me to get up all she wanted, I was staying there until midday. Then, I got older and I got up earlier, but never before nine. After a week of getting up at seven while in primary school, and at six while in high school, nine seemed a more decent hour to me. Not eight thirty, not eight fifty, but nine o'clock on the dot. And if nine fifteen, even better.
Then I moved here and I would get up around nine on Sundays to go to the market at Padrón with my parents. I maintained that hour, and even pushed it a little later until I got married. The first year of married life was best. We would eat Sunday dinner next door, which my mother would make. So my new husband and I could doze off and on, talk, eat breakfast in bed, or just lie there listening to the chickens and the rooster outside without any rush in the world. And then our daughter was born and the twelve o'clock Sunday risings were gone.
They were gone with the cries, the feedings, and dressing, usually before nine in the morning. Every morning. And the lazy Sunday mornings never came back. As a little girl our daughter was the opposite of what I had been. She didn't believe in staying in bed, and everyone had to get up with her. While my mother was ill, every morning I was up before nine. After she passed I still couldn't get up much later because I had to continue doing everything to get dinner together for everyone, and pick up the house. Now I keep getting up early, doing necessary chores that can't wait for the afternoon, such as washing my husband's work clothes to have it ready for Monday, or washing the dishes from the previous evening when I didn't feel like washing them. Or lighting the fire on a cold morning. Or feeding cats that do not understand it's Sunday. The lazy Sunday mornings have gone forever.
For me, but not for my teenage daughter. Since childhood she's done an about-face. She's the one now that I have to shake out of bed on Sunday mornings. And like my mother before me, I have little success.
When I was a child in Boston I remember watching the cartoons on channel WLVI 56 on Sunday mornings. That was after I had exhausted my favorite ones on other channels. I had a television in my room then, and on Sunday mornings I remember the sun passing by the window and me playing in and on the bed while the television was on. I would reluctantly get up and get dressed when the first movie came on, around twelve. My mother could tell me to get up all she wanted, I was staying there until midday. Then, I got older and I got up earlier, but never before nine. After a week of getting up at seven while in primary school, and at six while in high school, nine seemed a more decent hour to me. Not eight thirty, not eight fifty, but nine o'clock on the dot. And if nine fifteen, even better.
Then I moved here and I would get up around nine on Sundays to go to the market at Padrón with my parents. I maintained that hour, and even pushed it a little later until I got married. The first year of married life was best. We would eat Sunday dinner next door, which my mother would make. So my new husband and I could doze off and on, talk, eat breakfast in bed, or just lie there listening to the chickens and the rooster outside without any rush in the world. And then our daughter was born and the twelve o'clock Sunday risings were gone.
They were gone with the cries, the feedings, and dressing, usually before nine in the morning. Every morning. And the lazy Sunday mornings never came back. As a little girl our daughter was the opposite of what I had been. She didn't believe in staying in bed, and everyone had to get up with her. While my mother was ill, every morning I was up before nine. After she passed I still couldn't get up much later because I had to continue doing everything to get dinner together for everyone, and pick up the house. Now I keep getting up early, doing necessary chores that can't wait for the afternoon, such as washing my husband's work clothes to have it ready for Monday, or washing the dishes from the previous evening when I didn't feel like washing them. Or lighting the fire on a cold morning. Or feeding cats that do not understand it's Sunday. The lazy Sunday mornings have gone forever.
For me, but not for my teenage daughter. Since childhood she's done an about-face. She's the one now that I have to shake out of bed on Sunday mornings. And like my mother before me, I have little success.
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