When it’s Sunday, it feels like Saturday.

Most Sundays start with a whirl of busy as Momma comes into my room far too early. She pulls open the blinds, even in the winter, to show that the sun is up. While I try to pull the blankets over my head for a few more minutes sleep, she is opening the closet doors. Sometimes a few toys tumble out onto the floor, which means a few grumbles tumble out of Momma. She is in search of something “appropriate.” Ugh. That word means fancy, and probably scratchy. It means a dress with flowers or a sweater that is tight around my neck. Appropriate never means the shorts I wore the day before or my favorite jeans; the ones with the heart patches on the left knee.

The morning rush leads to a long time sitting at church while a man stands up front talking or a woman is singing or another man is talking. I cross my fingers over one another in lots of different ways, and my toes too if my shoes aren’t too tight. Momma doesn’t let me bring toys with me to church. It wouldn’t be appropriate after all. Shelby sits a few rows behind us and I know she gets to carry a pony in her purse. If I could have a toy it would me a teddy bear; much better company during all the sitting.

By the time church is over, it feels like Sunday is too. Its back home in another rush, out of the fancy clothes and into normal ones for lunch and any homework I should have done on Friday. Every week Momma tells me I should do my spelling words on Friday, and every week I don’t. School all day and then homework all night; no way. That means stuck on Sunday with words like “structure” and “ordinary” to work on at the kitchen counter. Could school get any more boring?

It is an early bedtime on Sunday nights thanks to school the next day. The day is a blink of boring nothing and then the alarm for school is going off. Every week the same.

Except for when it is magically different.

I never know when it is coming or why, but every couple of months, Mom decides it is time for a Bonus Saturday.

On those Sundays, instead of waking up to the sound of rustling blinds, I smell waffles from outside my door and the sound of cartoons in the living room. Momma is sitting on the couch, with a blanket pulled around her and a cup of tea in her hands. A stack of waffles sits on the counter with a huge glass beside them. And it’s not regular milk this time; it is chocolate milk. I grab my breakfast and snuggle up beside her. We’ll stay there all morning, not doing anything but picking out movies and getting more snacks. In the afternoon we might go to the park or just stay inside for more movies. Homework will get done before bed and Monday morning will be just like normal.

I asked Momma once about these Sundays, when we don’t have to go to church and she lets me eat breakfast on the couch (something I’m never ever allowed to do during the week). She pulled me extra tight that morning, and kissed the braids on my head. “I just needed a day with my Baby Girl.” That seemed like a great reason for waffles and cartoons so I didn’t ask any more questions. Why would anyone spend time wasting a Sunday that feels like Saturday?

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