Ooooooh noooooooo. The kids will be home from Daddy’s in about an hour. They will probably be unfed, definitely be wound up, and I haven’t gotten enough done in their absence. I have this fantasy, you see, that some weekend they will leave for Daddy’s and when they return I will have the house In Order.
Don’t ask me to define it. I told you it’s a fantasy. I can only verbalize parts of it: The refrigerator and pantry would be freshly stocked (I forgot to get to the store this weekend), the house would be clean for a change (I don’t think I’m in line for a CFS bust or anything, but it could be cleaner around here), the laundry would be put away (it’s still in the basket, albeit clean), and I would have completed all the tasks on my to-do list (ha!). Plus… I would feel refreshed and ready to start the week. I’m beginning to suspect that “refreshed” is an unattainable state for single moms.
On the up side: we went to the girls’ tea, and my daughter won the hat decorating contest, which put her over the moon. I did get a fair amount of gardening done. And last night I attended an interfaith benefit concert with some friends, plus we had–please allow me a moment of indulgence in a New England expression of reverence–a wicked thunderstorm that lasted several hours. In fact, there was a huge flash and crash and the lights went out while one of the performers was singing “I hear the rolling thunder” in How Great Thou Art. I defy anyone to say God doesn’t have a sense of humor.
But Sunday nights are hard. Sunday nights–especially the ones where the kids have just come back and I’ve finally wrestled them into bed–find me fighting those woulda-coulda-shouldas. Sunday nights are lonely. Sunday nights mean it’s almost time to get up Monday morning and face another week.
Does anyone have easy Sunday nights?
It’s okay. I’m gonna go finish up a few things and in a little while I’ll be listening to one of the many battles of the Chickadee vs. the Monkey while they both talk over the other, trying to tell me all about their weekend. It’s way too brief, but the snuggling on Sunday night is the absolute best, bar none. Even though I’m fully aware that our offspring appear adorable to us so that we won’t eat them, I fall for it every time. Long live the sticky, giggly kiss!