As my kids grow taller and my wrinkles get deeper, I don’t want to wish away any more days.
That’s what I’ve done my whole life.
I feel kind of bad for Monday.
Everyone hates it. The young and old both sigh on Sunday evenings when Monday is drawing near. Tuesday is in the same boat, because it’s just too close to Monday, but Wednesday is different since that camel declared it hump day. Thursday and Friday are kind of rock stars.
Because after that, those two golden days are here: Saturday and Sunday.
Saturday is the morning my pajama pants are a viable wardrobe option until noon (or all day depending on our plans), and Sunday is the day we all get up just in time to be 20 minutes late for church.
Weekends are great. I certainly won’t argue that, but I want to recognize Monday. It can be pretty great sometimes too.
I’m not really as optimistic as I sound. I am not a morning person, and Monday morning is the worst, but I’ve been thinking lately that I need to stop feeling that way. As my kids grow taller and my wrinkles get deeper, I don’t want to wish away any more days.
That’s what I’ve done my whole life.
When I was ten, I waited to be a teenager. Teenagers were cool. They got to stay home alone and backtalk their parents. Although I learned later there were consequences to being rude to my parents, which was not being allowed to stay home alone.
When I was 13, I waited for my sweet 16. Of course, once I actually started driving, we all discovered I was a horrendous driver (thank God that was before texting was a thing.) And by we all discovered, I mean the people in the car or on the road me with me white-knuckling the dash. I actually thought I was awesome.
I’m a good driver now, though (I think at least).
And after I hit 21, I stopped pining for age milestones, and more for experiences.
Shawn and I got married when I was 24, and the moment we stepped off that stage as man and wife, I wanted babies. It was a long four-year wait before Connor arrived, but it seems like only minutes after they placed him in my arms, I was encouraging him to roll over.
Of course, it’s normal to want your baby to grow at a natural rate, but I just wish I would have savored more of his (and Logan’s) baby-dom. Instead I couldn’t wait for him to walk and talk, and then once he did, I just wanted him to sit down and be quiet (and STOP sticking random things into the DVD player. Popsicle sticks will not play on HDMI.)
Now, I kind of miss those fat little fingers that got into everything. And you know what else I miss? My own youth.
Running barefoot in the creek before I got a weak ankle that makes walking on uneven surfaces clumsy and painful, and sledding down a snowy hill back when I weighed less than the sled and flew over the snow instead of getting stuck halfway down — those were the days.
I just didn’t see it, and I spent most of them wishing for adulthood. Even now, I count off days like I have them to spare — but I just keep learning that each one of them is precious.
Watching as my Dad weakens with chemotherapy (although I still believe his recovery is coming) I realize I took his healthy days for granted. Remembering back to those teenage years when I couldn’t wait for opportunities to sass him, make me wish I would have cherished every season.
And so today, I am happy to see Monday.
On this Monday, my kids are old enough to sass me (that actually started pretty early) but young enough to come running when something hurts, especially if it’s their hearts (or when the arm pain starts after told to clean their room).
On this Monday, my husband and I are healthy and enjoying the life we built together. And on this Monday, my Dad wants to go to Walmart and wander around just to get out the house.
This Monday — we are blessed. I love Mondays.
Meg Duncan has lived on the same corner in Hannibal for most of her thirty-something years. Raising two boys and one husband, she writes about real life because it is far better than fiction. The views expressed in this column are not necessarily those of the Courier-Post.