The arrival of Saturday was marked by the streaming of sunlight across the bedroom ceiling, and the broadcasting of an easy listening playlist from the radio clock. While staring into space and half listening to Wichita Lineman, the thump of little feet approached unseen.
Dropping my gaze to the crack of the bedroom door brought Miss Eight into focus, holding the door frame up while rubbing sleep from her eyes. Without a word she climbed onto the bed and spread herself across me - it would have been a picture of bliss if not for her continual and infernal wriggling, fidgeting, and restlessness.
After an award winning negotiation, we finally arose from our slumber and began pulling clothes on to fight the crunchy morning air. Chickens and cats to feed, a car to start (lest the battery die in the subzero temperatures afflicting us at present), breakfasts to make, and washing up to clear.
Quite miraculously the sounds of activity in the kitchen brought three cats and three little girls from their hiding places. Televisions switched on, chairs scraped, cat bowls rattled, and cereal bowls clinked while little people slurped their contents.
While sipping tea I watched the chickens explore the frost laden world outside, and enjoyed the clear sky and rising sun. Rather than let the children atrophy in front of cartoons all morning, I suggested they might like to join me outside…
“Who wants to come to the park?”
No response. I captured Miss Six’s attention.
“Do you want to come to the park?”
She snapped from her dream world and processed my words.
“I’LL COME!”
A few minutes later we found ourselves wrapped up like the Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tensing, kicking a small football around the green outside the house, crunching frost under foot, laughing, and puffing steam.
This is how Saturdays are supposedto start.