Everyday is like Sunday, every day is silent and grey. Hide on the promenade, etch a postcard, how I dearly wish I was not here………..
To date ( it is just after 4pm as I type), today has been a typical Sunday in our house. Sunday’s typically involve rows revolving round getting ready for football on time, the boys’ shared usage of the XBox and homework. During my lifetime (all 42 and three-quarter years of it) Sunday has never been a good day and the mornings have always been notoriously bad. The only difference is that in my day the rows about getting ready for Sunday school on time rather than football. I’m sure homework and sharing issues featured too, although these two lovelies might have waited their turn until the afternoon.
Every week as a fake organised Mother I get the boys’ football kits, drinks and associated paraphernalia ready on a Saturday afternoon. Round of applause for me you might think, but no it makes sod all difference. Something always goes wrong, today older boy wanted different socks which were lost and decided to put brown tape between his toes to make the socks he had to put up with more comfortable. On top of this, husband managed to tread in fox shit in the garden and the boys had a stupendous row over the box resulting in older boy pushing younger boy down the stairs and an inevitable ban. Things were off to a glowing start but somehow, although today it was on a one on one basis, we managed to get to football on time.
As is usually the case, antics were suspended whilst the boys played their matches, but normal service resumed in the car on the way home. The boys fought none stop, younger boy was furious cause older boy had bought himself a drink, they ribbed each other about their respective football abilities in a rather bad natured manner and argued in the supermarket when we had no choice but to stop for essentials.
The fun is continuing although now older boy is venting his frustration on the TV screen as his team aren’t doing too well. At the risk of sounding blasphemous, are Sunday’s cursed? For me were they cursed at the age of five when I recall my Mother threatening to batter me cause we had failed to have a bath when we needed one whilst she was having a rare and I’m sure much-needed night out? Sadly I think the answer is yes, the only time that Sunday’s were different was during the period between being a kid myself and having kids myself.
On this happy note, I’d better go and get on with leg two of the Sunday doom, homework supervision.