Ode to Wednesday

I think everyone has a favorite day of the week. Some people like Fridays, the end of the work week, a chance to have a few beers and some pizza in front of the TV, maybe, or just because on Friday, you know you don’t have to wake up the next morning before the sun. Others like Sundays, for the slower pace and fat newspapers and an afternoon of football or taking the kids some place fun.

My favorite day is Wednesday. I know, it’s Thursday today, and a fantastic one at that — it’s a quintessential Massachusetts fall day today, with bright sunshine and a cool breeze that makes the leaves swirl off the trees and the Halloween decorations dance from front porches. Fall is my season, and a day like today is my perfect.

But it still is Thursday, which means my beloved Wednesday is over.

The midweek day is a respite for me, a break in the chaos of the other six. By Wednesday, we all have ourselves organized and settled into the daily routine, and our mornings are not rushed as they are on Mondays. The day is also the only one that no one has any sports or activities, which it’s a great chance for the kids to have after-school fun with their friends, unfettered by anything other than homework (which makes them happy, and happy kids means less bickering among them, which makes a happy Mom). It means we can eat dinner at a reasonable hour. We can relax after and read stories or play games or draw pages of pictures. It’s a day that lets us re-energize for all the others.

Today is a glorious one, and I’m charging up my iPod, ever optimistic that I’ll find some time for a walk in the woods. My mood is positive; I am hopeful. And I’m holding the peace of Wednesday in a safe spot in my mind, so when the crazy returns (football practice from 6-7:30, basketball tryouts at 6, mounds of homework and projects and chores), I’ll have the touchstone to remind me that, yes, peace can always be found.

 

 

Interpretive dance + the Beatles = peace

My kids love each other. I know they do. This doesn’t mean they always play nice, though — most of their hours together are peppered with bickering and conflict and disagreement, and just about every five minute someone comes to me in tears over the wrong that was perpetrated against them.

It’s very exhausting.

It’s also very normal, I think. (Or maybe I’m delusional and other people’s kids get along every minute of every day?) I do what I can to diffuse situations, solicit apologies, and help them get along, but it’s not always successful. Many days I’m at my wit’s end, and when I can’t stand it any longer I send everyone to their rooms.

But then there are times like last night. After dinner, they showered, one by one, coming downstairs shiny and clean and dressed in fuzzy pajamas. After I approved their hygiene, they drifted down to our cluttery unfinished basement, where, I was told, Mitzi has been running a Dance Academy. They are preparing for a big recital in May (I was informed) and they needed to practice. Within minutes, the familiar chords of various Beatles songs drifted to the kitchen, where I was doing the dishes.

And for minutes — many, many minutes — there was no fighting. There were encouraging words and applause (yes, I was eavesdropping) as the CD spun through “Let it Be” and “Hey, Jude.” Bedtime loomed, but I just couldn’t break up the party, especially when I peeked and saw Joanna’s interpretive dance to “Blackbird.”

Of course, shortly after that, someone tripped someone else and wailing and yelling ensued. Back to normal. Time for bed.

But, ah, those blissful moments of peace! As infrequent as they are, it gives me hope that someday my quartet will be in harmony, helped, in part, to that slightly more famous quartet, whose words and music have helped bring mine together.

The magic of the Beatles lives on.