A weekly challenge to write about something in 100 words.
100 words on weekends
Weekends stretch out before me like a walk in soft sand along an expansive beach. Chef is gone by 7 and not home until 10. I wake up on Saturday mornings with a knot in my stomach about just what I’m going to do with all these children all day long. It becomes an ode to refined carbohydrates with championship rounds of how much screen time one can accumulate. I have grand plans of outings and adventures but nothing ever eventuates because getting everyone out of the house can feel insurmountable. And so another weekend rolls around, staring me down.
Jasper is asleep beside me, lying across the bed. His head is near Chef’s side with arms tucked tightly under his body. Knees are drawn up under him so the cutest little bottom in the world is pointing to the moon. He reminds me of a chrysalis albeit a Salvador Dali-esque one bedecked in bright orange Buzz Lightyears with Thomas the Effing Engine socked feet at the base. But here he lies seeming to grow and change before my very eyes and yet is still – and will ever be – my little ray of sunshine baby.
Going to the gym plays spectacularly to my obsessive tendencies. I start off hating it then find myself doing a couple of extra squats when really I should just be picking Grover up and checking the tears are indignation not injury. Recently the gym has been solitary work on machines which sound like I should be having an epiphany rather than a suspected heart attack. Then last week I crossed the threshold and entered ‘the room’ to do a class. I endured being called ‘my newcomer’. I kept up. I didn’t appear too uncoordinated. I enjoyed it. Go figure.
When I was a kid we lived on a typical quarter acre block in the suburbs. Our garden featured dense green grass, glorious hydrangeas, a magnolia tree with a towering gum in the middle of the lawn. Mum planted a grove of those elms with the white trunks that had seed pods you could flake into hundreds of delicate little leaves. There were snap dragons, azaleas and a run of jacaranda trees down the street that every year carpeted the suburb in a swathe of glorious menopausal purple. My mum worked that garden every weekend – weeding, planting, nurturing. Good times.
Take one cold and wintery morning. Add an unassuming mix of milk and eggs with a smattering of sugar. Ignore the squabbling children as you dip eight slices of decent bread into the mix and feel that morning world weariness fall away as you place four of them in a frypan sizzling with butter. Let that excitement grow as you top the sizzling bread with pieces of chocolate. Sigh softly as you gently press the remaining four slices of bread over the chocolate. Explore your patience as you cook each side until nicely golden. Lose yourself in the first mouthful.