Blue SundaySundays are the worst. On Saturdays, I have a manic desire to set my house to rights after the neglect of the week: water plants, do the laundry, pay and sort bills, move the moldering vegetables from the refrigerator to the combination wetlands/compost I am creating in my city-owned yardwaste bin, refresh the heavily-trafficked (emphasis on ICK) litter boxes in the basement. I can usually think of a couple of errands to get us out of the house: the farmer's market, pet store, etc.
On Sunday, however, there's precious little left, and solo parenting doesn't really allow for the long, leisurely perusal of the paper, or even for the pre-planning of the week's lessons. The parks are filled with those damn intact families, or, worse yet, with fathers out to make up for the work week by teaching their little girls to cycle, or skate, or by swinging them higher and higher until they squeal with the kind of joy and terror that only a father can evoke. There are families out for walks, families out for breakfast, and families working in their yards.
By 5 p.m., I'm tired of finding things my daughter can do to amuse herself. I'm irked by the day's accumulation of toys and art projects in the house I had just tidied up. I don't want to find us something nutritious to eat, or figure out what to put in our lunches this week. I grow weak and just want to watch one of the endless variety of home improvement/real estate shows, and have a cocktail. I just want someone to talk to who is not, god bless her, 4 3/4 years old.
I feel spoiled and sulky and lonely and bereft. I know that it's not true that everyone else in the world is happy and fulfilled and doing something fun with the people they love, but it sure looks--and feels--that way.
Labels: boundless self pity