I love Sunday mornings. I can't quite put my finger on why, but to me, they are more special than any other. As a child, Sunday mornings were just different. Maybe it's because I was born on a Sunday morning. Maybe it's because my dad was home and the family was whole. Things just seemed calmer, less chaotic. The world just seemed to stop.
Sunday mornings were about sleeping in with fresh coffee percolating, its aroma wafting thru the house to rouse my sleeping parents from their beds. Sunday mornings were sizzling bacon, the sweet smell of pancakes and the sound of football announcers droning in the background. When I was really little, I would snuggle up with my dad in his recliner as he perused the Sunday paper. When I was older, I would make proudly make him a cup of coffee and lay on the floor at his feet perusing the funnies. I always got the funnies. The Peanuts were my favorite. It was our time together. I had always been a 'Daddy's' girl. Of course, I was also born on Father's Day. Maybe that was part of it. Whatever the reason, I always felt blissfully content on Sunday mornings.
As I grew up, things changed, as they are apt to do. Nothing lasts forever. My parents divorced. No more Sunday brunches, time with my dad. I was no longer a child. I started working. My Sunday mornings were now spent serving other people coffee. The only Sunday papers I saw were those I threw away when I cleared the tables.
I married, had a child, started teaching and Sunday mornings were mine again. Coffee now hissed through an expresso machine, turkey bacon sizzled and the sweet smell of pancakes wafted through the air as the TV droned on in the background. When my son was little we cuddled on the couch and watched Crocadile Hunter and anime. As he grew older, he lay on the floor drawing. We went to breakfast at Ihop and played tic-tac-toe as we waited for our order. It was time spent with my son. It was our time together. I was again content.
Things again changed as they are apt to do. Nothing lasts forever. I got divorced. My son grew up and moved out on his own. Sunday mornings now belong to me alone. They are still about sleeping in, the aroma of coffee, sizzling bacon, the sweet smell of pancakes, but now, it's time to myself. I am content. I have always loved Sunday mornings. I still can't quite put my finger on why, but they are more special than any other. Sundays were always different. Maybe it's because I was born on a Sunday morning. Maybe it's because I am home, I am whole.