The Night Before Sunday
It's Saturday night, the house is still, the children abed, the husband asleep. Finally it's my time.
My time to think, to write, to watch, to listen.
Later, I will go and tuck the blankets up 'round the sleeping babes. I will put dishes in the sink, shut off lights and stumble my way to my waiting bed.
But, that's later, when my time is over and it's back to mother time.
I contemplate different ways to use my time, craving satisfaction from the brief moments of respite. It's not that I am running away. Or that I'm desperate for solace. More that, this is my rest. Eventually I will sleep, dream, toss, turn, and mumble through til dawn.
Not yet.
There is a brief window of time, when the stars show just enough twinkle to tantalize, revealing stolen moments. In the quick shadows, I shed the lists and to-do's and expectations so that I can step into myself for a while.
Soon the night will end, fading away beneath the sweeping rays of the sun. But, that's later.
It's not mother time yet.
My time to think, to write, to watch, to listen.
Later, I will go and tuck the blankets up 'round the sleeping babes. I will put dishes in the sink, shut off lights and stumble my way to my waiting bed.
But, that's later, when my time is over and it's back to mother time.
I contemplate different ways to use my time, craving satisfaction from the brief moments of respite. It's not that I am running away. Or that I'm desperate for solace. More that, this is my rest. Eventually I will sleep, dream, toss, turn, and mumble through til dawn.
Not yet.
There is a brief window of time, when the stars show just enough twinkle to tantalize, revealing stolen moments. In the quick shadows, I shed the lists and to-do's and expectations so that I can step into myself for a while.
Soon the night will end, fading away beneath the sweeping rays of the sun. But, that's later.
It's not mother time yet.
