Sunday night. My favorite night of the week. After dinner clean up, I start getting the kids ready for school on Monday. I get their lunches prepped. Oldest likes turkey & cheese on a white wrap. Middle wanted chicken breast with lettuce and honey mustard dipping sauce, and little wants a salami and cheese sandwich, hold the mayo. Done.
The laundry is in various stages of completion, and then it’s just folding. I no longer put their clothes away, now that I got the coolest sign ever!
“Put Your Laundry Away or I Will Punch You in the Face! Love Mom”
It just arrived a few days ago and has been working like a charm. Done.
Not that I really would punch them in the face, but I think they know me well enough to know not to risk it.
But here’s why I really love Sunday nights. Because I know tomorrow will be Monday, and Mondays are my favorite day of the week. I see my boys off to school; both now leave at 6:40 a.m., walk together down the long driveway, then split off – one to the left, and one to the right, as they head to their bus stop. Before they head out, I hand them their backpacks, make sure they have their lunches, homework, and anything else they might need. Then, to each, its, “Have a nice day sweetheart. I love you!”
At 8:20 a.m. I’ll be walking little to the bus stop, 10 minutes early because she likes to get there and socialize with her bestie (of course). As we walk to the bus stop we’ll hold hands and sing songs, and by 8:30 a.m. I’ll be kissing my little goodbye as she heads for the bus, and I’ll wave with both hands, smiling.
As soon as I get to the front steps, my smile has widened. Full-on grin, people. I’m home. Alone. By myself. (Well, puppy is home too, but he’s cool)
“Sweet Mother of Jesus, I’m freeeeee!” I exclaim to the hallway, as I kick off my shoes, drop my keys and my cell and head towards the coffee pot. Hazelnut creamer or pumpkin spice? Does it even matter? Nope. It’s Monday! It’s Monday! I won’t have to keep re-heating it! I can have two cups if I feel like it. And I usually do.
I have exactly six hours of peace. Six hours of doing nothing, if I want. Six hours of blaring my own music, not anything from Disney’s movie, Descendants; the musical, Annie, or Jo Jo Siwa. No musical interlude from the Minecraft video game. No electric guitar screaming from the upstairs bedroom of my oldest. Just me. My pup. And quiet.
Then I call my mom and rejoice in the glory of having a conversation without any interruptions. We catch up from our chat the night before; before I had to hang up because the kids were either fighting, wrestling, screaming or hungry.
After we hang up, I head into the living room to start my weekly online Flash Sale for my customers. I then get my boutique orders labeled, packaged and shipped, and I check out the new fashions coming in from New York and Los Angeles. So, it’s not like I do absolutely nothing all day. But there’s joy in knowing I could if I wanted to.
By 2 p.m. I’m missing the kids. By 3:30 p.m. they’re all home and the craziness that is our life resumes. Then it’s afternoon snacks, emptying backpacks, emptying lunch containers and getting ready for homework, dinner, and the chaos of bedtime.
But those 6 hours every Monday…