I think the whole world sits down on Sunday evening to take a deep breath. Tomorrow is Monday and everything starts again. We’ve had a low-key weekend after five days of sick bugs, busy evenings and interrupted nights. On Saturday afternoon we walked to the park and let Henry run off his lethargy, while we sat in soft grass together without saying much. It felt like convalescence. It also felt like the end of something. The late summer sun, using up its last hurrah.
Sure enough, today a persistent autumn rain set in early, driving us indoors and under blankets. I wasn’t sorry. Tim read a book while I cooked shepherd’s pie and listened to talks. Henry sat on the floor in his cardigan and bare legs (where were his trousers?), looking at the pictures in his library books. No one at all was producing or mopping up sick. It was blessedly quiet.
This week, this month, this run-up to the end of the year will be crammed as full as it always is – crammier even than usual, with a boy sprinting through the flat with his arms full, yelling at the top of his voice, getting taller every time he wakes up. I feel good about where we are and the things we have planned. I’m a little afraid of stretching myself, of doing more and being better; I’ve always thought that throwing yourself into things and letting things change takes a very particular type of bravery. But I’m ready to be busy and work hard. Still, I always need a breath before the plunge. And a Sunday evening, with jammy scones and shepherd’s pie and rain on the windows, gives me space to take one.