Sunday Night

Sunday night... even when I was single Sunday nights were always a bit of a letdown. The spectre of Monday morning looming closer; the regret of not having had enough fun on the weekend.

Weekends while I was an undergrad and living with the perfect boyfriend weren't that different to weekdays, being undergrads there were a whole lot of things that we considered "superfluous" like lectures, tutorials, wearing shoes... but there was usually a vague guilt that we should be more studious, something that only ever really hit on Sunday nights (and, as a matter of course, in that mad panic of Swot Vac).

When I had the Elfling, days melded into one another, and basically became separated into days the now perfect fiance was home and days that he was at work. Sunday night always felt deflated, that after having him greedily all to ourselves for two days he would be snatched back into the evil quagmire that is work.

When I went back to uni when she was one, Sunday nights were usually a rush to get everything organised for the next days shenanigans, and a definite sensation sometimes of drowning because although I loved the social aspect of being away from home and being around peers and fantastic friends, it was so hard and so stressful. So Sunday nights were kind of dreaded, and I never felt like I got to spend enough time with the perfect husband.

By the time the Elfling was two, I was pregnant with her little sister and Sundays always came too soon. I would only just have started to relax into the weekend and it was all gone!! I'd be clawing back at it and so tired and sick and dreading having to drag my vomiting self back to work where I'd have to seem calm and professional at all times.

Then the Monkey was born and after that first euphoric haze where days were full of sunshine and rainbows, the contrast between the weekend and the weekdays was stark, and I hated that sense of weariness that would hit me on Sunday nights when I realised that the perfect husband was going to be away again, and there were 5 more days to get through.

Now, the Monkey is nearly one, the Elfling is three and a half and my husband is still perfect (for me) and Sunday nights still blow slightly. There's Big Love (which is great), and the house is clean (which is better), and usually I can get everything organised for the next day. But there's this weird mood that hangs over me... it's not black, and it's not sunny, and it's not warm and cozy (though if the neighbours don't slow down on the weed then I might soon be all 3), it's kind of azure. Squelchy if a mood can be so. Not fun pig in mud squelchy, but that sensation when you realise that you've stepped in something tacky and your shoes are sticking just that fraction too long when you walk.

I'm enjoying being "back" still. But at the same time, the honeymoon is over. Getting up at 6am every morning and having to get dressed and brush my hair is not so fun any more. Changing nappies, and getting uncooperative peaches and cream arms and legs to go into warm clothes quickly so that I can avoid peak hour even less so. I have a diary now that needs be consulted every day, several times a day, to make sure I cross things off on my list (library books, send Hurricane's present, pick up the Aunt's present and send, pick up script from the pharmacy, do case report, interview lady in Ward 3C, go to tutorial at 10). There is no way I'd swap to where I was before, but I've gone from being on one of those scooters that elderly people drive around shopping centres to a shiny black Porsche and I'm still trying to work out where the headlights are.

But there are moments so blissful as to obliterate all the piffling little annoyances; driving in to the hospital just as the sunlight hits the river in the morning, sparkling and bouncing joyfully over the ripples as the CityCat rushes by; hearing the click of my pretty shoes on the hard spotless floor of the hospital corridors and feeling at home; seeing friends and having conversations that aren't about baby poo or sleep or the babies at all; driving home late just as the sun hits the city and turns it from generic geometric to somehow mystic and mysterious, golden and glimmering; arriving at daycare early and watching the Monkey without her knowing, watching her confidently cruise around the room, one hand outstretched to the wall for support as she stumbles along; The Monkey's face when she sees me, the way it lights up and the way she races towards me, barrelling her head into my chest; picking up the Elfling and watching her with her friends as she builds towers and plays imaginative games.

Life is hectic at the moment, but it suits me and I'm loving it. I still don't really love Sunday nights though... will have to find something to look forward to!