Upstairs
I may have to choose between Diary and Shower this morning, because I hear some princessy noises from the crib. But she could go back to sleep. We had a 1:00 a.m. milk-and-cuddle interlude. Not sure what the problem was, but she was not about to settle down without some hugging and petting. Well . . . not a problem . . . I have those nights too. Sundays are a little tough, now that I practice (sorta) a Saturday Shabbat. On Saturdays, I eschew have-tos and try to perform only want-tos, to make it a day of rest. But that discounts my childhood programming for Sundays. So do I take two days of rest? Oh, perish the thought. Growing up, in fact, Sunday was not really a day of rest. It was a day of sustained tension. I dreaded Sundays. Up early for church, with Dad sitting in the car with the engine running, and Mom hustling everyone along because Dad was impatient (30 years later, I learn that he was only warming up the car, and I am married to a man who does the same damned thing). Then off to church, where we alternated between a) getting good and scared about the Fires of Hell by our sorta nutsy Sunday School teacher and b) being pushed into social interactions with other churchgoers' kids, none of whom we really liked and none of whom really liked us. Then home, to our traditional Sunday frozen pizza which Dad would load with anything left-over in the fridge. Sometimes it was OK and sometimes just nasty. After that came chore-time, which really took the rest of the day because all three of us kids were prize dawdlers. More parental frustration. I clearly remember that Sunday Chores represented my first successful parental lobby. At some point, I consulted with Sister Mine and Brother, and brought to my parents a proposal that since everybody was grumpy all day Sunday anyway, we might as well scuttle the whole day and make Sunday afternoon our Chore Time. (Previously, we had been ruining perfectly good Saturday afternoons and we were all logy from our Saturday cartoon-time). I must have stated this more diplomatically than above, however, because my parents actually consented. My chores, as the eldest and biggest, included vacuuming the upstairs common areas, vacuuming the stairways, washing the kitchen floor, tidying the mudroom and washing the mudroom floor, and washing the bathroom floors, sinks, and mirrors. I think that was all. I was perhaps 10 or 11. Although this was not hard labor, nowadays I look at my 11-year-old niece and wonder, "Would I really want a child of my own spending her Sunday aftermoon doing those things?" Oh, the child is now getting serious about wanting her Mama. I am going to sign off and tell her how damned lucky she is to be too young to wield a mop. |
8:22 a.m. - 01-10-10
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