Saturday morning at the Monkey house means Premier League soccer (we have a Liverpool fan, a Man City fan and someone (me) who chooses to root for whichever team is the underdog or has the most festive outfits), massive Lego projects on the basement floor, and lazing about in our pajamas until a truly unseemly hour.
On Saturday mornings, Mr. Monkey usually goes up to our bedroom and works on his writing (he blogs here and is such a fine writer) while I hang with the littles downstairs. I’m writing this downstairs now, in between breaking up some squabbles about Legos and putting off requests for Halloween candy. After lunch we’ll often switch places and I’ll go take some time to work on school work and he’ll wrangle the kids. Today we might put up the Christmas tree and do some holiday decorating instead.
In my life, I have often wished for more. More money, more stuff, more friends, more pats on the head, more praise. I’ve wished to be exceptional at something. I’ve wished to be more than I am, more than an overweight, frumpy, perpetually tired mom/wife that I sometimes see myself as when I feel discouraged or bored.
But today, on this quiet Saturday, I’m letting myself just feel the contentment of this little family in this little house. I have a cold and the kids are squabbling and my team is down 2-0 at halftime, but I feel at peace. Everything I really need is here.
This is, I think, not a bad feeling to have going into the Christmas season.