Sundays at my house mean sleeping in…until 7:15 and discovering my eight-year old is already awake. The TV is on and his nose is shoved into his DS. Standing in front of the TV, I say, “Hey, Grif. Good Morning.”
“Hey. I was watching that.”
“I wasn’t aware that you could play DS & watch TV at the same time.”
“It is my style.”
“Well, your style is going to turn your head into mush.”
An hour later, I am wishing I hadn’t slept in at all. It is nearly time to leave for church and not a one of us is completely ready. This is an every Sunday occurrence and you would think I might change my routine, but then that would be to easy.
Sundays at my house are going to church and hearing your children sing. Their voices may very well be a little piece of Heaven on Earth (for this Momma anyway).
Sundays at my house are spending time with family, sitting in lawn chairs, watching the kids run and play, and talking. This is what Sundays are made of.
Sundays at my house are taking the long road home, praying Dan doesn’t go to sleep. Even though I’ve lived in the same county nearly my entire life, if you put me on a back-road I may never find my way home. I am the driver and while I’m not in any hurry, I would like to return home…eventually.
Sundays at my house are getting home from a fun day, dirty and worn out. Getting the kids ready for bed and realizing laundry is a must. Their school uniforms are dirty, so as they sleep the hum of the washing machine continues on.
Yes, this is how we spend Sundays at my house.