"Sundays when we can do whatever we want are rapidly coming to an end." My wife stated this today offhandedly, but it struck me as the truest sort of statement. Sundays, for us, are a day for sleeping in, making a fancy breakfast, reading, watching movies under the blanket; we can be unproductive without feeling guilty about it. On Sunday, we are captains of our own ships, but a new captain is arriving in a little over three months. The new captain is small, does not speak english, and I've heard he's a yeller. He's a high maintenace sort of guy who expects everything done for him and done right the first time. And he's not a patient man. He hates to wait.
Some part of me laments the loss of Sunday as we know it, but I'm surprised to find that a bigger part of me is looking forward to the new incarnation of Sunday. I imagine Sunday will still be an unproductive sort of day, just with the stack of pancakes a little higher. I know many things will be different (it might be truer to say that things will not be the same), but that's okay. There's room under the blanket for one more.
96 days until baby.