When a Sunday is a Sunday


One of the most remarkable things I have noticed about my shift to part time so far, is that a Sunday has become truly a day of rest.  For the past eight or so years,  Sunday was anything but restful for me. Sunday was the day to get everything accomplished: the laundry, the house cleaning, the groceries, the bills, the return calls, and emails, the to do lists, the arrangements for help the following week, the fall clothes out and ready, the summer clothes packed or given away. Sunday was when my Monday obligations would crawl up into my spine as soon as I stopped working on my Sunday ones. Sunday was often sewn with guilty thread around the edges for the time I wasn’t spending at play with the boys.

Now that I do not go into work on Monday, I have this day to write, and tend, and connect, and take care of what else I need to. It allows Sunday’s potential to spread her arms upward to the sky and be whatever we want her to.  Yesterday that looked like almost eight hours at the skatepark, a picnic, coaching Marcel’s soccer team, cooking a delicious dinner, and an early night to bed. My sense is that this is wildly close to what I dreamed a Sunday could like with my family.


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