I remember a time when Sunday night was my least favorite time of the week. The realization that the weekend was just about over would set in around dinnertime and put me in a funk that would last until well past the dreaded Monday morning alarm. Never an a.m. kind of gal, Monday and I were not friends.
That was then. As I've mentioned, Sundays have lately been reserved for weekly visits from the parents. They come down for dinner, sparkling conversation, and whatever sports are on TV. Last night we sat on the deck and listened as they regaled their granddaughter with stories of their past; how they met, their first jobs, and what their parents were like. My twenty-five year old daughter couldn't have been more interested, asking question after question of her obviously flattered grandparents. The NCAA March Madness may have been playing on most TVs in America but ours remained silent. We had better things to do.
These days, I have to say I have a whole new respect for Mondays. Thanks to a change in my work schedule, I don't get up as early as I used to and now I wake up a whole lot happier, remembering special moments from the night before. I may have originally started writing this blog to celebrate the idea of my children moving out of our house but evenings like last night make me hope my daughter sticks around for awhile.
Three generations sitting together for hours on a warm not-yet-Spring night sharing stories and pineapple upside down cake gets you thinking. And it also makes for some pretty wonderful Monday morning memories.
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