Sundays were once reserved for quiet. When my sister and I talked on Friday night, we were optimistic that even though Saturday would be busy, we'd surely find time to get together on Sunday. Ah, Sundays. I remember in our early years of marriage and parenting, Sundays started with a trip to church, drop off for religious ed, and then we'd go home for lunch, a lounge on the couch with stories, and a nice, long nap. Later, we'd return to my parents' house for dinner, and they'd even send us home. We'd drive away, leftovers in hand, with my mom waving from the driveway and my dad, chasing our car up the road. Our back seat windows were rolled down for our little boys, already dressed in their pjs, to hear my dad call, "Your car is too slow!" as he chased us the street. They'd all woop and holler in unison as we drove toward home and the end of our weekend. I have a clear memory of carrying each of my sleeping babies from the car to the crib.
Today began with the familiar trip to religious ed, but there were about ten stops between breakfast and dinner. My sister and I didn't get our toddlers together to play. We didn't see my parents, and no one chased our car into the horizon. In fact, it's days like these, that my arms just feel like jell-o at the end of the day after all of the heavy lifting I did. Now, I'm trying to remind myself that there will be quiet days ahead.
Life lesson: Take your foot off the gas for long enough to look back for comfort and look ahead for relief.
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