A Tale of Two Mornings
As the fog of sleep slowly recedes, I roll over, snuggle into the blankets, and let out a contented sigh. Saturday morning. There’s something about those words that sends a little shiver of pleasure down my spine. A lazy morning in my jammies, pancakes on the griddle, soccer in the sun, children laughing in the yard. I know the reality is often quite different: Saturdays filled with grumpy chores, rainy soccer, and burned pancakes. But that doesn’t stop the warm glow slowly spreading from my ears to my toes as I think those precious words: Saturday morning.
Then the fog clears a bit more and I remember: that was yesterday.
My eyes snap open.
Sunday morning. I’d love to tell you that those words send a similar shiver of pleasure down my spine. But I’d be lying. If I do get a shiver, it’s more like the feeling you get when you suddenly remember that your in-laws are coming over for dinner. Not quite terror, but certainly not joy. More like resignation.