Domingueando

By Mariana Conde

There are infinite ways to spend a Sunday, I imagine. I spend mine almost always the same way: active mornings with breakfast and some sport that moves the four of us, late lunch, reading, making earrings. 

Although during the week I make grandiose plans for the seventh day, in reality, when the seventh day arrives, they no longer seem as interesting as letting ourselves go through the familiar routine and enjoying the supposed leisure that will end with the arrival of Monday.

I say supposedly because I can no longer afford to live a Sunday a la Garfield; with two children and a restless husband, the luxury of oversleeping has vanished, there are three pairs of eyes waiting for the moment when I mistakenly open mine to bombard me with ideas of what to do or where to go: Bike! No, better paddle! Hiking, swimming, parks, trampolines, skating, picnics, visiting grandparents, etc, etc, etc, etc. As if that wasn't enough, later on we have to use the precious hours to organize life and home, check accounts, tidy up what never gets tidied up, clean where it never gets cleaned. And there I go behind my enterprising partner dragging the blanket while pretending to have the same motivation of not stopping until I have the last document well filed.