How ever did that happen, #MySundayPhoto? I am amazed to see I have posted content every Sunday for seven years, since my son was only two years old. It is the record of a mundane everyday sort of life that comes with having small children. It is precious in every day but when summarised, so much of nothing.
I was doing some housekeeping on my blog, auditing content and assessing what I had, looking for gaps and opportunities to create new content. This section of the blog sits alongside the more common business posts I usually create. It is the most consistent and long-lasting content here.
From Every Day is Like Sunday to #MySundayPhoto
As I have joined different linkies, there has been the opportunity to connect with other people also regularly posting. There is comfort in seeing themes and subjects each week being shared. Knowing you are not alone and that other people are also recording those special intimate moments of the every day.
Now I have a very independent daughter in secondary school. My son has grown into a fine young man in year 4. I never believed it when more experienced mothers said the time would pass so quickly. Each phase was endless and yet inevitably did end. I look with trepidation at the next few years, when that independence will grow and they will journey happily away from us.
So when I was housekeeping the blog, I couldn’t quite bring myself to delete these old posts. I leave them here as a record of the time when the days were long but the years oh so short.
Here’s my very first Sunday post, long may they continue.
Every Day is Like Sunday
When did Sundays stop being different from other days of the week? When I was younger, shops didn’t open, you didn’t meet up with friends. You stayed at home and spent time with your family and in the afternoon taped tracks off the radio Top 40 with a cassette recorder.
I might be showing my age here, but occasionally I have the odd pang about the Sundays of my youth. They were endless and boring. And yet somehow they were still restorative and recharging for the week ahead. My mum could serve a seemingly endless amount of cousins, uncles, boyfriends and neighbours a Sunday tea with just one chicken. She took certain delight in beating eggs in a glass bowl with a metal fork to remind you of why Sunday hangovers weren’t such a good idea.
Maybe some music, a good book, a catch up with sisters and cousins. But always Sunday was different and out of time with the rest of our busy weekdays. A time to be cherished, a space for reflection, and to be treasured with those closest to you.
For Morrissey, every day was like Sunday and not the better for that. But Sunday’s difference is a thing to be celebrated.
Inspired by such generous sharing linkies as Mocha Beanie’s Silent Sunday, I will post one photograph each Sunday with minimal commentary, to typify the time we are trying as a family to spend together. Here’s the first.