Sunday mornings have evolved greatly over the course of my forty-slur years.
When I was a little girl living with my grandmother, Sunday mornings started off by watching "Davy and Goliath" and putting on whatever red velvet dress of the week was laid out for me. There'd be a full breakfast, and I had damned-well better eat all of it because "there are children starving in China" and somehow my finishing my waffles would help ease their suffering. Then I'd just wait for the grown ups to finish their tiny porcelain cups of coffee before we'd head out to church, which ended promptly one hour after it started. We'd then come home, put on our non-church, yet still company approved clothes ("in case someone important popped by," we still had to look Sunday worthy...this was a very formal household), and sit down to the weekly meal of leg of lamb and over-boiled French-cut green beans. (Which I've refused to touch since 1974 and believe to be the side dish most frequently served in Hell's cafeteria.)
When I was a tween and teen, Dad was back on the scene and "church" meant something entirely different. Therefore Sunday mornings did too. Sunday mornings would be spent looking for an unwrinkled skirt, because in the 80s God apparently hated women who wore pants. Church would often last three hours and involved tambourines, tongues and dancing in the aisles. No snakes though. Bummer, I like snakes. By now a well-seasoned eye-roller at these "services," I had learned to pack a granola bar in my pocket to get me through the morning. Of course you'd have to unwrap it at home, lest God and the woman in the head-covering sitting next to you hear cellophane crinkle. Crinkling was a sin. I'd spend Sunday mornings avoiding having someone lay their hands on me and prophecy my future. My baby brother couldn't avoid it however, since he was in the womb when he had his future foretold by some guy dancing in an aisle. He said he had a vision of my unborn brother becoming "a Great prophet for God." My brother is now a creative director in advertising. Steve, how's that "Got God?" ad campaign coming along?
When I was in my 20s and "shacking up" with my husband, Sunday mornings were AWESOME. They were spent sleeping in late to recover from whatever we'd done the Saturday night before. They involved diners, newspapers, long car rides to no where, music and more often than not...well, you know. If you're in this stage of life, savor THESE Sundays. Because next comes:
Sundays as a parent. These Sundays start EARLY. The same kids who you can't wake up for school because they're "just so tired" somehow manage to wake up by 7 a.m. on Sunday to demand cartoons and breakfast. And don't think you'll get away with putting on the Disney Channel, handing them a bowl of cereal, and then go back to bed for a couple of hours. Maybe that might work if you only have one. But if you've got two or more, you'll only have about 10 minutes of peace before they're fighting over the remote.
I'm sure that a few years down the road, if I were to rewrite this blog entry, I'd tell you to savor THOSE Sundays. The Sundays when you still had kids in the house to fight over Cheerios and channels. Instead we'll be spending our Sundays wondering if either of them is going to call to say "Hello" from college or from their own home. Maybe I'd better take my own advance advice...and do the same. Boys! Who wants French toast?