Sunday mornings when the littlest one of the house stays asleep until after 9am and you have to stand outside the bedroom door listening for his breathing three times because he has so rarely slept in this long that you are hugely suspicious. It's that time of year when his chest is tight and that first cold of winter demands many puffs of the inhaler just as it did that first time when he was two and then when he was three, four and now five.
Sunday morning and as I lay in shock that the littlest of the house hadn't awoken at his usual time of 6.50am and through blurry eyes I could see 7.10 registering. I decided this was an indulgent moment to catch up on reading a favourite blog of mine. I read the words that she had written 'HOME REALLY IS A PLACE WE CARRY INSIDE' and I thought about it, deep and wide and thought of its truth. It reminded me of times many years ago, watching my mother looking through recipe books when she lived far from home, far from her own mother. She would leaf through the pages, talking about how her own mother would bake these recipes, talking about the adjustments her mother would make, how it would smell and which apron her mother would be wearing. Probably the one she made with the left over fabric from Mrs. Slocombe's posh curtains. This would make her think of home and the picture that she would build confirmed the very words that Made by Katrina spelled out: 'HOME REALLY IS A PLACE WE CARRY INSIDE'.
Sunday mornings watching Pirates of the Caribbean with the older one, his head resting on my lap and then all change and his toes poking in my side as we share the sofa. Sunday mornings watching them watching Michel Gondry's wonderful videos for Oui Oui. Laughing and feeling full of cheer, with the heating on and eating dry Cheerios and toasted pitta bread with lashings of butter, trying to guess the meaning of the french lyrics. Talking about missing church on this sunday morning and counting our blessings as the sunshine pours into our living space after a night of hard, hard rain. It feels like forever since we didn't have to rush and it feels like such a treat to still be in our pyjamas past 9am!
Sunday mornings when you save the last two balconi for your hubby and take them up to him in bed with a coffee (de-caff although you don't tell him it is) who likes the reminder of his childhood spent in Spain eating 'bollos'. Sunday mornings are those where there is comfort in listening to two boys storytelling whilst you write. 'what if we were twins and we both had the same name and the only way to tell us apart was that mole on your cheek. But then you sneezed and the mole fell off and then no one could tell who we were!'
Sunday mornings are those when you are told by your usually so sensitive eldest that your toenails are terrible and you glance down and must admit to yourself that a pedicure is needed and you think of how disappointed Mama-andmore would be.(see here specifically letter 'p' for evidence!) But then the littlest jumps in to your defence and says he likes that little toe nail, he likes it a lot. Perhaps a great deal more than you do yourself and that is love.
Sunday mornings sometimes allow time to take a look out through the looking glass to see the scarred apples still hanging on the apple tree in the back garden. You wonder if you should have cut it back by now and you can't remember and you could google it but you'll probably just phone your mother later to find out. Sunday mornings offer the slow pace that reminds you how much you like to write. To just sit and write about what's happening right in front of you, right now it's two boys imitating the robots in Daft Punk's 'Around the World' video. Perfect - just perfect for a Sunday morning.
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