Sunday’s in my household almost always play out as jammie days.
If my bunchkins are home, the living room becomes a whirlwind of Littlest Pet Shop, Risk, Play-Doh, action figures, movies, and Mad Libs. (My 12-year-old will be less than thrilled at the disclosure.) All of this, of course, is after sleeping in, cuddles and giggles.
Except the days I am home alone.
It never fails. If I am home alone, the birds outside are deafening. The dawn sun is a spotlight through the tiniest crack of the curtains. I lay there and blink at the walls.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am in great, great need of sleep. A rare night is one without insomnia. I crave Sundays, when the world stops and eyelids stay droopy.
Inevitably, I roll out of bed and the obvious lines from U2’s Bad play in my head. My Sunday morning, having nothing to do with the true meaning of this song, is ruined and I’m wide awake.
I’m wide awake, I’m wide awake
I’m not sleeping, oh no