The Melancholy Dread of Sunday Evening

I loathe Sunday evening.

Because before you know it it’s already 4:30 or 5:00 pm. And it’s time to get started on dinner. And you haven’t done anything to prep for the week – you haven’t hard-boiled any eggs or parceled out snacks into appropriately sized portions or labeled bottles. You don’t have a game plan for staying healthy over the next 7 days.

You haven’t accomplished everything on your to-do list for the weekend. Only the tomatoes have been planted; the holes you dug for the peppers are still there, taunting you with their emptiness. And the sweet potato plants appear to be judging you from their teensy tinsy pots, waiting for their own chance to get in the ground. The house is still a mess, with only the most cursory vacuuming and mopping done. And don’t even start on the dusting; that hasn’t been done in months. And the clothes that need to be put away.

Between corralling kids and coordinating naps and wiping heineys, you haven’t really spent time with your husband all weekend. You’ve traded off who gets up early with the baby, so Lord knows there have been no leisurely weekend cuddles. One of you is always darting off after a wee one while the other does some necessary task to keep the house functioning and everyone alive and well, but you do manage to give each other the occasional kiss and a bit of a grope on the fly.

But… you look back and your time was filled with:

So it wasn’t a total wash.

But you could certainly use another day or so to get everything done.

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