Mom followed the adage “Saturday is a special day. It’s the day we get ready for Sunday.” We really did polish our shoes on Saturdays when I was a little girl.
Now? Saturday is Smatterday. Each one is wildly chaotic and vastly variable from the last. On the agenda today: Laundry. Re-caulk the upstairs bathroom. Empty, clean, and refill the hot tub. In January. In the rain. In bare feet. Treat my feet for frostbite. Think of my pioneer ancestor who lost her toes while crossing the plains. Make a menu. Buy groceries. Clean the house. Write a definition for Smatterday. Edit the church newsletter. Take down the porch Christmas lights. Celebrate Meg's birthday!
Meg is the keeper of our lasts. Our last child and every single last thing that followed. She is smart and beautiful and kind and perceptive and thoughtful and helpful and funny. I love her, and no matter how busy a Smatterday might be, there will ALWAYS be time to celebrate our Meg!
I can't help but think Mom might be a bit disappointed at the smattering of events clogging my "special" day. At least we get enough done so we "won't have to work until Monday." Except that Sundays end up being a lot of work in their own way.
MEMORY PROMPT: Do your Saturday activities as an adult differ from how your parents spent the Saturdays of your youth?
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