Never on Sunday

Is Sunday your quiet day? Your catch-up day? Your day for domestic duties or family gatherings? Is it a day for rest?

Not around here.

Sunday comes and I step over teenage bodies – boy bodies – and the count seems to be the same as it was last evening. An excellent sign.

All those who smiled upon entering, exited excitedly on their way to a concert, returned late, huddled around the fire pit, ignored the repeated text messages to be quieter (my son will catch the grief for that one), and – naturally – laughed into the night, and eventually, slept.

There was the kid on the couch. The Latvian Suite was utilized. Bedrolls on the floor.

Those lanky bodies with the faces I once recognized so well as little boys, and a few I’ve only gotten to know in the past year or two. When they’re 16 and 17 and 18 and 19 – you’re happy when you can say that you know where they are. That they’re safe and sound, even if they kept you up all night, even if they wake you repeatedly with their comings-and-goings to the fridge, even if you tiptoe around them to make your morning brew, taking a deep breath, preparing yourself for another Sunday. 

This is a tiny home, a single parent home, a messy home, a grounded home.

An unusual home. 

It is the best home I could make with what I have – my wits and my heart, my understanding of what it is to want to fly, my knowledge of the essential need to know you will be welcome, your friends will be welcome, and the mother doesn’t really mind stepping over the sleeping kids. It is a safe haven.

But Sunday, waking tired, is nonetheless the day that I wonder why I say yes as often as I do – why no . Yet I realize that our weeks are rugged and my son is growing and growing away from me so quickly, as well he should.

Yesterday, he tidied and scrubbed, he raked and weeded, he drove me on errands. He wants and needs relief from responsibilities (and he has plenty), relief from stress (he has too much), relief from the pieces of the adult world that weigh on him. 

On Sunday?

I wish I could say that I never work, that my son doesn’t buckle down to papers and projects, that a family dinner is prepared and we eat around the kitchen table, talking and savoring. Occasionally, we do. But Sunday – other than counting his sleeping friends on occasion – is like any other day around here, or close.

And maybe that isn’t so bad. 
 
 
© D A Wolf