Sunday mornings

Sunday mornings are for coffee and lounging on the couch in your pajamas.  At least, until the babysitter gets here...then it's time to stuff yourself in your running clothes and head out in to the gorgeous cold, where you will force yourself to run 2.5 miles even though you helped your sister and brother-in-law move yesterday and every muscle and bone in your body is screaming at you.  Sunday morning runs are for slower paces and listening to Wait, Wait...Don't Tell Me.  And not caring that your pace has dropped from twelve minutes to fifteen.

Sunday mornings are for watching Super Why and painstakingly copying down the letters they discover with your Crayola markers, on the scratch paper Mommy brought home for you from work.  They are for two cups of hot milk and Frosted Mini Wheats in a small plastic bowl, after you 'slept in' until 7:45.

Sunday mornings mean the washing machine is humming, you are halfway through this week's edition of The New Yorker (Tina Fey!), and you are debating what to cook for dinner.  Because Sunday means you actually have time to prepare something, not rush home from work and merely throw something frozen in the oven.

Sunday mornings are for perusing your blog roll and catching up on everything you haven't read this week.  They are for reassuring your daughter that it's okay to not color perfectly within the lines all the time.  They are for playing 'if you were a dinosaur, which one would you be?'.  They are for letting your child 'help' start the dishwasher and put clothes in the dryer, even though it takes ten times longer than it would if you did it yourself.

Happy Sunday morning, everyone.