This morning my daughter climbed into our bed to snuggle, and a tickle monster attack ensued followed by a game of “pillow” (in which one person wants to sleep and the other is the moving pillow).
These mornings remind me of my childhood. My brothers and I jumping onto my parents’ bed, my dad heating up the griddle for pancakes and bacon. I don’t know if this was rare in my childhood home or if it happened every weekend, but it is a strong memory. I can nearly smell the syrup. In my memory, childhood weekends consisted of cleaning, grocery shopping, visiting my grandparents and playing endlessly with my brothers.
In my grown-up house, weekend snuggles and big breakfasts are rare. It seems that open spaces on the calendar always seem to me an invitation to schedule something “fun.”
But recently my husband told me he had a goal of at least one day on the weekend in which he didn’t get into a car. We drive—a lot—which is unfortunate because we both hate driving. Initially, I thought he was just being a bit extreme (I mean what difference does it make if we drive on the weekend?), but I decided to play along.
The first Sunday, I had strong urges to run errands or do something else “productive.” In just three weeks, though, I’ve realized the amazing power of carless Sundays. Vowing to stay out of the car means I stay close to home. Maybe I head out for a run, take my daughter to the playground, read a book or enjoy a family brunch at a neighborhood restaurant. Without a gas-powered vehicle, my pace goes from 65 mph to about 10 mph.
Today, as I played Barbies and ponies on the living room floor with my daughter, the NFL announcers yacking in the background, it still felt a bit foreign to “do nothing.” Yet it also felt familiar—it felt like home. It felt like something worth slowing down for.
Next weekend, the syrup comes out.