Sunday nights can be a downer. My husband starts to lose his upbeat, cheeriness thinking about the demands of his upcoming week. Our children don’t want to go to bed. I’m worn out from the weekend, all pissy about not getting enough time for me. As a child myself I would get very down in the dumps on Sunday evenings, even though I loved school. As a career woman I was downright depressed over the weekends not being long enough. They still aren’t.
Last night, Sunday, I was in the laundry room starting one wash load, sorting all the piles getting quite annoyed, noticing the time on my watch. Nearly 8:30 and I had lots to “get done” before I could think about reading my book. My husband came down to the laundry room and said, “Babe, stop. I’ll sort this – you go write or read or something.” Aware that he still had to pack for his business trip I hesitated about taking up his offer. “Go, you haven’t had time for you all day.” I dropped the dirty sweat pants onto the floor and marched up the stairs. I grabbed my journal and vented, filling the blank pages with my frustrations. After ten minutes I started to fill the pages with all that I was grateful for, starting with the husband who made me get out of the laundry room. The husband who made me go write.
It was amazing how my mood changed. The anger was replaced with love and gratitude.
On Sunday nights, before the whole routine stats all over again I need to do something for myself instead of going to my own little pity party place. The laundry room is not the place to replenish my soul, fill my empty cup. I know this, yet I continually need to be reminded of what happens when I don’t do something for myself. I turn angry. Bitter. Downright pissy. As in the case of last night, if I’m too stubborn to listen to myself thank goodness I listened to my husband. He doesn’t want to live with a pissy, hostile woman – secretly he knows he does laundry better than I do.