A Perfect Sunday
I first posted this on my other blog over a year ago. Not much has changed although the wake up time was around 6.20am today and the now 11 year old is still in the land of nod.
Happy Mother’s Day!
I’ve been awake since 5am. The 19 month old started moaning and groaning. We eventually got up at 6am, so a little lie in, ha. By 10am it was pretty frantic in our house, 19 month old was whining as she was tired and 10 year old had just surfaced wanting breakfast. I joked with my husband about how an idyllic Winter Sunday should be. Reckon I’ve spent too much time on Pinterest.
In my head one of those Sundays would mean that we lived in a slightly different house from the one we live in now. Ok, who am I trying to kid, it would be totally different. For a start it would be Victorian or Edwardian, I don’t mind, and it would be large, but not so big that we’d have to name bedrooms or make reference to the West Wing or the Annex.
To ensure that we could have perfect Sundays we would need a large cosy kitchen with a big farmhouse table covered in a floral oilcloth. The girls would have given us a leisurely lie in and husband and I would have surfaced around 8 or 9 wrapped in cosy robes and slippers. Ideally we would have home made pancakes and proper coffee. We would be sat at the table, drinking multiple cups of said coffee in pretty mugs, perusing at a leisurely pace through a collection of Sunday papers. Both girls would be playing contentedly in matching pyjamas, robes and slippers. The log burner would be cracking in the corner keeping the kitchen warm, both cats snuggled nearby on cat beds side by side. The sounds of suitably chilled out tunes coming from the retro radio just by the Rayburn.
Mid morning we would snack on warm homemade cookies and the girls would drink milk out of thick glass beakers with candy striped straws. The little one would ask for a nap and I would take her upstairs and put her in her cot. She would whisper ‘night night’ and turn over and snooze for 2-3 hours. Downstairs husband, 10 year old and I would snuggle under a big thick blanket of the softest wool and watch an old black and white film. The mouthwatering aroma of a slowly baking lamb joint wafting through to the lounge every now and again. I would take a nice bath and whilst I was floating amongst candles and bath bombs, husband would be putting the final touches to the roast. I’d get the 19 month old up, she’d be fresh as a daisy of course, and as a family we’d all sit down to a cosy family Sunday lunch.
In my head, that is the perfect Sunday. Not very realistic though and it distracts me from the realisation that perhaps perfection is right under my nose. Anyone for cheese on toast whilst I cram the school uniform in the dryer? If you are really lucky I might be able to rustle up some Angel Delight, well it is Sunday.