Two hours ago, my feet were icy cold. As I compose this blog entry, I am in our basement trying to stay warm in an old, grey sweater (my kids say it looks like a bathrobe….I think it looks chic…..) and someone’s thick, beige socks (definitely NOT chic). I say “someone” because no one had ever laid claim to these particular pair of socks — until I finally did when I couldn’t find a pair I recognized as my own. These warm, fuzzy socks that had once been relegated to the bag of abandoned socks (yes, one actually exists in our home) are now keeping my toes nice and comfortable. Now, I am quite grateful for these socks. They provide me with the warmth that my more fashionable yet sadly thinner socks couldn’t.
That gets me thinking about other things that aren’t fashionable or chic or trendy, yet prove their worth so many times over in the real world. The aforementioned grey sweater I wear at this very minute may not make anyone else’s top ten list of must-haves in their wardrobe, but it is a prized item in mine. It is big and long enough to cover me up on chilly and downright cold days (like today) regardless of my body size. By that I mean whether I am pregnant, not pregnant but sporting post-natal fat or just plain not pregnant. It’s definitely not trendy, but I don’t mind. It’s a definite keeper.
You know what else is unfashionable? Staying at home with the kids on a Sunday afternoon — which is what I am doing right now as I continue typing this up while wearing my favourite sweater and extremely useful thick socks. My eldest daughter is at a birthday party. My husband had to run some errands and has the three oldest boys. Which leaves me with the four youngest children. Right now, the next oldest person after me in this house is my eight-year old son. 
He’s trying to construct a “tent” on the futon with his comforter. My 6-year old daughter is wearing a skirt fashioned out of a bathrobe (they’re very creative this way), playing pretend with the 6-month old baby boy who’s unaware of his role as a “pretend baby”. The three-year old girl is trying to figure out a way to fashion a tent out of 1 pillow and a toddler-size comforter — to no avail. But she will not stop trying and I have to give her points for perseverance, really. Right now, this part of our basement looks like a mini construction site of condo-tents for little people.
What is the purpose served by staying home with the kids on a Sunday afternoon, you might ask? Why aren’t we skiing or ice-skating or sipping mugs of hot cocoa while happily counting marshmallows around the dining table? Well, we don’t ski (don’t know how to and it’s too expensive). I don’t skate (would love to but have a bad knee — long story). And the hot cocoa scenario with four children, ages 8 and under, only works if you have 8 arms, non-staining cocoa and can move around like Flash. None of that applies to me, and so we find ourselves all together in the basement making do with what we have: an over-abundance of imagination (all of us), an enormous amount of energy (them), an opportunity to blog (that’s me), and a chunk of time to just be with each other.
See, I don’t think I appreciate these moments enough because they don’t involve activities that make my heart beat faster or my adrenaline rushing. We’re not doing anything new or amazing. In fact, it’s downright ordinary — and that is precisely the beauty of it all. After a week of rushing around from one thing to another, keeping to a tight schedule, trying to get this and that done, it is an absolute pleasure to be able to spend time with the family on a quiet Sunday afternoon. This time serves to give us the chance to re-connect with each other at a slower pace. This moment allows us to rest from work and enjoy each other’s company. It is an opportunity afforded to us by a day on which we, as Christians, keep the Lord’s day holy.
There is always that temptation to try and do something new and exciting, especially on the weekend. After all, we mostly live our lives in ordinary time, doing mostly ordinary things. But even on a Sunday, when there aren’t too many thrills to go around, these same ordinary things take on extraordinary meaning because they are done for and with those whom we love and care.
As I end this entry, a drama involving an odd assortment of stuffed animals — including three bears, a walrus and Baby Bop — and the made-up voices of my 8-year old son is unfolding behind me. The tents have been abandoned by the girls — for now — in favour of playing the role of audience to their brother’s soap operatic attempts. The baby has fallen asleep in my arms. (Another reason for me to end this entry…..) Altogether, it has been a pretty good Sunday afternoon — a definite keeper.
Musings from a Mom at Large 