This weekend I grew up a little. Maybe. As long as you don’t count swearing in front of my kids again or staying in my pajamas until 2 Sunday afternoon.
This may be obvious to many, but new to me. In the middle of making walnut shortbread cookies with my daughter it occurred to me why we have a weekend or least how I need to start living my weekends.
To go with the flow, to be with those I love, to breathe slower, to connect. Instead I try to fill it all in, trying to race the clock. I approach Saturday morning with a big breakfast for the family, all together around the table, then I start cracking the whip once the dishes are cleared. I want to cram in education, experiences, house projects. Let’s read ten books, wash the windows, go to the store, weed the garden, save the whales, knit a sweater, play Monopoly, bake a pie, make up a dance routine, build a tree house and learn a foreign language, while we’re at it. Go, go, go.
My husband and two kids already got it. They watch football, snuggle on the couch, laugh hard and just be, while I buzz around them.
But not Sunday. I learned from Saturday. Saturday I got stuff done, but I hungered to be still with my family. Sunday we skipped church to hang out on the couch and read. I skipped yoga so we could make cookies and eat every meal together at the table.
Weekends for me, now that I am so wise, aren’t made to get it all in, but to let go so I can let the love in and really start living.
by J.G. McGlothern