Every other day of the week is fine, but come Sunday and I m a mess. I don t want to get up, and the entire day seems rushed. As if the hours are catching up with me.

Ironically, Adam has the same problem with Sundays. He s always referred to Sundays as crispy.

I don t know what that means but it boils down to one gloomy day in our house.

So this past weekend we were sitting on the steps dreading another full day of Sunday when we started talking about Sundays as children.

This is my memory of Sunday. I woke up at my paternal Grandmother s house. We got dressed up and went to church A.M.E. Zion in Brownsville, Brooklyn. Then we went back to her house and waited for my father. He would usually show up much later than I thought, we d run into Manhattan and do a little shopping or we d spend some time in downtown Brooklyn. My grandmother would make a huge dinner which we d eat in the late afternoon. Then he d call a cab and take me home usually by seven o clock. When I got home, there was a whole routine there bath, getting ready for school, and other stuff.

I think Adam s routine was much the same, except his played out on Long Island.

Even though I haven t done the child of divorce routine in many years I still feel rushed on Sunday. I feel like my carriage is going to turn into a pumpkin unless I rush through the day and get home by seven o clock.

One day I’ll work out a routine to avoid this Sunday funk. But until then, it’s not my favorite day of the week.

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