The Seventh Day

We try to make Sundays at our house just a little different than the other days of the week, a small attempt at taking a break from our regular activities to recharge our batteries. We have a few DO’S and DON’TS for Sundays that are pretty steadfast rules, and the kids are so used to them that when a neighbor shows up for hopeful spontaneous play they don’t even hesitate to respectfully turn them down. Lately, however, I feel we’ve become a bit lax in our quest for one peaceful day of the week, and I wonder if we need to reassess our unwritten policy.

For example, noticeably absent on our list of DON’TS is the order to avoid the VH1 series “Scott Baio is 45 and Single”. It’s an egregious assault on my personal character to revel in the fact that Charles is no longer in Charge, and yet here I sit: guilty. I also neglected to specify to my kids that there should be “no steamrolling each other while wrapped in the area rug”. Gotta remember to write that one down. And though it seems fanatical to pen out a rule for “no lip syncing to Bon Jovi or Elvis while Dad is taking an extremely rare and deserved nap”, there does come a time where it would be helpful to have that in writing.

Then again, there’s no other day where my kids interact with each other the way they do on Sundays. In addition to using a music stand as a microphone and our window seat as a stage, today they have played games together, practiced math facts, and taken turns wowing each other with new tricks off the back of the couch. But finally, near the end of the day Samantha collapsed on the couch as a way of saying, “Party’s over,” to which Drew appropriately responded with a body slam on her lap. He then looked up at her, fluttered his eyelashes, and in a mocking tone asked, “Momma? Read me a story?” He thought he was hilarious, but Samantha moaned in disapproval and pushed him off. I staved off a fight and distracted them with two spoons and a bowl of cake batter.

Sunday. Our day of rest. Maybe one day we’ll be good at it.