I've never been a fan of Sundays, dating back to my elementary school days. I think my mom worked 3-11 most Sundays so it was usually me, my dad, my grandpa, and my brother hanging out at our house on Sunday afternoon. Now don't get me wrong, I loved them all as a 6-year-old, but I think I felt slightly outnumbered in the girls camp. I wandered around the house while Dad and Grandpa drank their beer and watched football (that was mainly for my Grandpa, as I know my dad could care less about any sports) and Ryan played video games. I didn't always know what to do with myself. (for some reason, a Road Runner coloring book keeps flashing through my mind in addition to a dreary, gray day pressing itself into the large bay window over my dad's head). I'm sure I read or played My Little Pony and took care of whatever homework I had from second grade...but those afternoons tended to drag on, and I knew that Monday morning and school were right around the corner.

I occasionally still feel like this, although as an adult I now realize that all time is precious, and I shouldn't spend 52 days a year wishing the day away. It helps that I really like my job now because Monday mornings aren't as painful as they used to be. When Jeff and I lived in New London, I spent more than half of every Sunday whining and feeling sorry for myself that it was back to another week, back to the same old routine.

But I have always loved rainy Sundays. They are to be enjoyed by everyone...cozy inside and no need to even get dressed or make a plan for the day. No real motivation to accomplish anything of substance, just movies, TV, good books, warm comfort food, (I think I just heard thunder, yay!), and blankets. Today my parents are coming over for Jeff's amazing pasta fagioli and some red wine. I miss them and don't get to see them nearly as much as I'd like to, considering they're only an hour and 15 minutes away. I know I can count on good conversation, great food, fun stories and another memorable rainy Sunday.