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I Heart Lazy, Hazy Sundays

It seems there’s never any rest for the weary, especially if you’re a mom. I mean, all day, every second of the day it seems we’re doing something for our little buggers:

School clothes need to be picked out…

Lunches need to be made…

Cereal needs pouring…

Buses need to be caught…

Laundry needs to be washed…

They need help with homework…

And a chauffeur to, like, everywhere…

Groceries need to be bought…

Snacks need to be made…

Dinner needs to be cooked…

Baths need to be drawn…

Notes to teachers need writing…

Somewhere in there, paid work needs to get done so you can afford all that stuff.

And if, by chance, we should be lucky enough to get in, say, four or five hours of sleep, we spend a quarter of that doing mental gymnastics trying to figure out how we’re going to repeat all of that tomorrow and add another 10 things to the list.

Our own personal needs rarely fit in. Like, it’s been two weeks since I had my hair done, which explains why if you squint a little and cock your head to the side, it looks like my mass of scraggly black curls might just up and walk off my scalp. And don’t even get me started on the chipped pedicure. Hell, it’s almost 2 p.m., and nothing on my body has seen water and soap yet.

Right.

But here’s the pearl in this vast ocean of mundane mom sludge: By some small miracle, my girls have become fiercely self-sufficient -- on Sundays. For some reason, of late, the girls have forgone busting into our bedroom at 7 a.m. and poking me in the eye and announcing they are hungry / bored / in need of a hug / in need of a referee / sneezing and coughing / feeling happy today / just wanna say ‘Hi!”; instead, they’re finding their own joy early Sunday morning, sans mommy interaction.

A few weeks ago, for instance, Mari whipped out her copy of The Girls’ Book of Glamour: A Guide to Being a Goddess, and helped her little sister mix up an intoxicating brew of rosemary flower petal perfume. On another Sunday, Lila gathered up magazines out of our recycling bin and two old pieces of poster board and invited her sister to get their Romare Bearden-styled collage on -- a project that lasted well past noon. A couple of times, Mari’s fixed breakfast for the two of them -- scrambled eggs with cheese, toast, bacon and sliced strawberries, a breakfast she’s made a million times with me standing over her but never just on her own. And just this past weekend, the tucked themselves into their winter jackets and, still in their pajamas, went out into the front yard to twirl in the rain.

Now on a Tuesday, I wouldn’t have ever authorized pajama-clad little brown girls to scurry across the front lawn like little lunatics, getting wet hair and cold feet and muddy sneakers. But on this particular day -- his lazy, hazy Sunday -- it was fine by me. Not just because they weren’t bugging me, but because when I looked outside my window to see what they were up to, they were out there happy as can be -- their faces pointed toward the sky, their mouths open and their smiles wide, dancing a jig as the raindrops bounced on their tongues.

Together, my girls found their own joy.

And they didn’t need their mom to manufacture it for them.

This is big.

Very big.

Even bigger: I resisted calling them in out of the rain, and even talked myself out of rushing downstairs to prepare hot chocolate with extra marshmallow to help knock off the chill when they came back in.

Instead, I got myself back into bed, pulled the covers up to my chin, buried my head into my pillow, and giggled a little.

Even God rested on the 7th day.

And now, 10 years into motherhood, I get to, too.

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