Sunday night

I'm not sure when exactly on a Sunday afternoon it happens, but at some point a corner is turned, a mood shifts and suddenly, subtly it has become Sunday evening.

I try not to think about it; try to tell myself that this time is still weekend time and very much belongs to the happy category, but I can't escape that feeling of inevitability and of creeping, or being dragged perhaps, towards Sunday night.

I resist the urge to keep the children up late to spend extra time with them. They've got a long day in nursery tomorrow. I hate that they have a long day in nursery tomorrow. It wouldn't be fair of me to hang on to a little bit of extra weekend at their expense.

After they've gone to bed, I know I have a lot to do. I have nursery bags to pack, forms to sign, bills to pay, a packed lunch to make, clothes to find, wash, dry, iron and sort into outfits, bottles to sterilise, milk cartons to find, an object beginning with 'r' or 'n' to locate for the letter of the week talk -  and numerous other little jobs.

My children have a late bedtime compared to most their age, otherwise they'd never see their Daddy, so they wake up a bit later than some children too. This makes their 7.45am exit on a Monday sometimes as little as half an hour after their wakeup time, so everything has to be ready for the morning. Outfits must be pre assembled down to the socks and shoes. Coats, hats and gloves must be laid out next to them. Toothbrushes must be pre-spread with a thin layer of toothpaste, ready to be applied the second the pre-set out bowls, filled with the nearby cereal have been scraped by the waiting spoons.

And so, with all of this to do, I settle down for the evening and do anything but any of the above. I write e-mails, I watch television, I work, I tidy, I read, I blog(!), I play games and I metaphorically close my eyes, stick my fingers in my ears and shout LALALALALA for all I'm worth.

At nine o'clock I tell myself I have plenty of time - I'll start getting organised at ten and go to bed at eleven. At ten, I tell myself that I only need to be in bed by midnight anyway for a good six hour stretch. At quarter past midnight, when I have only just finished finally dragging myself around my chores, I am dropping with tiredness and realise I haven't had a bath yet and there wont be time in the morning, so I start to run it and know it'll be 1am before I crawl into bed.

I know I'll hate myself tomorrow. I'll look dreadful, feel awful and I'll curse myself for this stupidity. I'll long for, no I'll ache for the one thing that I could be giving myself right now, a few extra hours sleep. I know that now, and yet I keep on pottering and pootling and burying my head in other things, as if I somehow believe that going to sleep and waking up is the thing that makes the difference, and if I stay up it will just stay Sunday night and not turn into Monday morning.

Comments

[Meg]

All so familiar. Tonight I have made an exception and gone to bed early. Although as I past Wesley's door I heard him stirring, giving me the feeling he's not settled for the night - I know he's under the weather. The two teenagers and man who still need to get themselves washed and ready for tomorrow and into bed, stomping up and down the stairs and past his room 100 times in the next few hours won't help either.

[caroline]

Luckily I don't work on a Monday and have the children but you have described my Monday night to a tee. Except there is no way I could stay up until 1am and function the next day. I am on the bus at 7am on Tuesday morning and the children are off to daycare with Daddy by 7.15 at the latest...

Still, despite no 'work' tomorrow, my little boy's bowl of shreddies and spoon is sitting there in the kitchen waiting to be eaten...