In the quiet annals of my adulthood, I have hated Sundays—until I loved them. Loving them took years. There’s a blueness about Sundays, intensified when I miss church, especially the liturgy. Especially communion.
John’s been away since Thursday (Dostoevsky symposium in Kansas), and I was pretty sure there was no way I’d be able to get the boys ready for church this morning and get them to the church anywhere near on time. But here we are—back from church (the only near-crisis being the moment when Gabriel unzipped my dress as I carried him up to communion), enjoying a fine lunch of fried cornmeal, pretend sausage, and a plate of cheesy arugula scrambled eggs (that’d be me).
Considering I was approaching a state of near-desperation last Wednesday thinking about how I would survive the long weekend solo, this is a pretty great place to be. The boys and I found our rhythm, aided, rather than hindered, by the both of them sick and home from school on Thursday. The snow helped, its silence somehow permeating our little tribe. Yesterday we managed to go sledding (G was content to stay in the car with the iPad after one powder-in-the-face bumpy run down the hill), get my lopsided haircut evened out, shovel the sidewalks and driveway (the second time in two days), and watch the movie Arriety (a magical version of The Borrowers). Right before bedtime, Gabriel pooped in the toilet for the first time. Ever. (See the celebratory lollipop party pic below.) He then proceeded to go five more times (in the toilet, or therabouts). Okay, I started to lose it a little at bedtime, but then it was bedtime, the day done.
“I’m going to be *Normal! Me I am!” proclaims Jonah as he trots to the basement, having finished an episode of Garfield. G (stands for Garfield in this moment) begins to chase him wielding two hammers. I lick the maple syrup clean off my plate as I peruse a review of Scarlett Johansson in “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” This is some kind of miracle, I think, right before I hear a skull hit a doorframe, followed by screams and apologies and the prohibition of the “chasing game” with a ten foot piece of tubing G calls his firehose. The chasing recommences. Like I said, some kind of miracle, this being nowhere near the edge.
* [Normal, I learn, is another cat on the Garfield Show, not an existential question to ponder. In the car on the way home from church J asked, “Mom, do you like Normal?” To which I responded, “I like normal okay, but I like different better.” “Who’s Different?” asked J.]