by Kat Apf

Created on: September 22, 2008   Last Updated: September 12, 2010

Sunday mornings at home are usually a peaceful, quiet time in comparison to the rest of our week. The pace is slow to nonexistent. We wake up, stretching and yawning, and there isn't one glance at the clock. There's no need to catch the weather report or the news. There's time for a leisurely cup of coffee while reading the paper.

We can stay in our pajamas if we feel like it. And we usually do. We have more time for breakfast which usually means we eat more than cereal. It's a nice change of pace from the hustle and bustle breakfasts during the week.

Talking is to a minimum. It's almost as if all of us are caught in our own set of thoughts and pondering, even our six-year-old seems to speak less or at least, less loudly. Unlike the busy school/work morning, we have time to catch our breath and enjoy each other.

Different seasons mean different routines but for me, the coziest and the ones I look forward to most are Sunday mornings in winter. All of us in our warm pajamas and maybe we're having oatmeal or grits and eggs. My husband may light a fire in the fireplace. The grown-ups might have coffee or tea and the smaller folks get hot chocolate. If we're really lucky, there's soft, gorgeous snow falling, but that's rare here, in our part of the South. But it's something we all hope and pray for.

I have still-life photos in my head of my family on Sunday mornings, from different stages of our lives. One photo is of my oldest daughter as a toddler, dragging her blankie and carrying her favorite stuffy, pillow cat, down the hall to climb into bed with us. She's got sleep in her eyes and her fine, blonde hair is full of static, so it's standing up a little on the top and clinging to her neck and shoulders. I can still see that little face in her now grown face.

Another head photo is my second daughter lying on the floor on her back with her feet up on the coffee table. Her face is bright and wide awake, her blue eyes sparkling in the early morning sunshine. She was always an early riser, telling me, "If I sleep past seven, the whole day is shot. I've missed it." She was always the first one up and most times, she would turn the television on with almost no sound at all, lie on the floor and wait for one of us to get up. I can still see her small feet pressed onto the coffee table that we gave away long ago.

An even earlier still-life in my head is of my husband, before we had kids, standing in the kitchen of our upstate New York duplex, measuring coffee into an old-fashioned coffee pot. The light above the sink tints the picture yellow and his black hair stands out against the light-colored paneling. His eyes are hooded and he's got a slight smile on his face.

There's one of my son, a more recent head picture- He's padding down the hallway to the bathroom. He looks so much like his oldest sister, with sleep in his eyes and his hair standing up from static and sleep. He's got droopy eyes and a foggy look about him. One of his pajama legs is pushed up to his knee and the other is at his ankle. He's got that same slight smile as his father.

Sunday mornings are special. The hurry-up isn't present. The tension of the outside world doesn't poke at us on Sunday mornings. We get to gear up, quietly, for the rest of the week. It's a time recharge and reconnect. It's something I look forward to as early as Monday morning.

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