Always the same. The house is quiet. The bed calls to me, and I begin to rationalize. Everybody else is already asleep: I'll just rest here under this big down quilt for a few minutes, and read.
I wake up disoriented in the semidarkness. My limbs won't move, and my brain is sluggish. I've drooled on myself a bit. Is it Sunday, or Monday? 6 am, or pm? I can hear the kids outside. Twilight, then. I can hear Jake in the kitchen, rustling around. He's either doing the dishes, or eating the bacon I cooked for tonight's soup. Likely, both. I need to get up and rescue my bacon, but I can't move. I know that once I get up, there is a long night ahead. I'll be tired, but not at all sleepy. I'll try to talk Jake into playing Trivial Pursuit on the XBox. He'll probably consent, since he can't sleep either. I'll probably win, even though there is a dark hole in my brain where all the answers to the Sports and Leisure questions should be. (I do have a niggling fear he might be throwing the games, just to see me squeal with unsportsmanlike glee, like I just won the superbowl or something). Oh, and Sam will be up, too. He's still asleep on the floor next to me.
Dinner was the Potato Bacon Soup with sharp white cheddar and heavy cream, and homemade wheat rolls. How very Martha-y of me. Only Martha probably doesn't waste her Sunday afternoons napping when she has dogs to brush and sheets to iron, and glitter to order from Germany for Christmas table place cards, and some of the very finest semi-sweet Belgian chocolate on her enormous pantry shelf, just waiting to be made into something remarkable.
Or who knows? Maybe her Sabbath is a day of rest, too. She does have a huge staff to do all that stuff on Monday.