The Worst Case of Sundaynightitis

I was all kinds of crabby yesterday. It may have something to do with the fact that I drove into work the evening before to get caught up, so that I could be gone at any time and things would be taken care of. I was there for eight hours, and sucked down the coveted remaining half of my Caribou cooler to keep me awake as I drove home at 12:30 in the morning. It felt anticlimactic. I had been waiting for weeks to be caught up, ready to leave. And finally, there were no papers left on my desk. No visits uncharted. No orders unentered. And everyone covering for my patients had the instructions they needed. But I was just so tired, that all I cared about was getting myself home. I rolled in at 1:15 am. I haven't seen those numbers on the clock for 10 months.

My exhaustion didn't help things, but it still didn't seem to completely explain why I was in such a funk. "It's the weather," I heard a couple of times yesterday from family. But that didn't make much sense, either. The sky was densely clouded in gray all day, but I love the rain.

Though I had been up until an obscene hour the night before, I was determined to get myself to my home church in Maple Plain, where my Dad is a pastor. They were having a summer kick-off of sorts, and among other things, there was a dunk tank. With my Dad in it. "I'm not going down without a fight," he told me the day before. He explained that he would be in full pirate costume, armed with gold coins and a super-soaker. Anyone that soaked him would get soaked right back. I just couldn't miss this, nor the opportunity to aim a few balls myself.

Crabby Sundays inevitably involve being late somewhere, and usually to church. Yesterday was no exception, but I didn't think it would be a problem as this was a carnival event, and surely it wouldn't be over in a half hour. I pulled into the church parking lot after my 45 -minute commute as it started to rain. The bounce house was deflated. The dunk tank was ditched, empty. The table hosting condiments for the BBQ lunch I was going to partake in was cleared off. It was over. The crabby quotient climbed.

I walked into church and observed a modified cake walk held in our coffee-hour area, and chatted with a few people, trying to guage who got more attacks in the dunk tank: my Dad or the town lawyer. It was a toss-up. I had been looking forward to visiting with my friends at church, who have all known me most of my life and are all thrilled with our upcoming family member. But remember: I was crabby. So what I recall is the man who verified my size ("when are you due? You are really big"), and the 14 stories from women about their own labor ("With my first, I was dilated for two days before...")

Then I spotted Tammy, a friend of mine from youth group days. Tammy, a vivacious, exceedingly energetic teenager in high school days, was broadsided on highway 12 just before her high school graduation. She sustained permanent brain damage, is in a wheelchair and resides in assisted living. Her speech is slow, but the light in her eyes is still there. Her dad wheeled her to me after they won their cake. Tammy lit up when she saw me. "Kiiiiirsten," she slurred. She placed a hand on my belly. "This....is.....beautiful."

This profound little moment helped me to gain a bit of perspective on my day, and I began to dissect what was really bothering me. When I called Michael, who had chosen to stay home to enjoy what is likely the last quiet Sunday in the house for years to come, it occurred to me why my countenance was as ugly as the sky was. This is quite likely the last weekend that we have together without children. Ever. Don't get me wrong, we are thrilled about becoming parents. It's just that the thought of never, ever being the same again in a bit daunting...the thought of countless years of responsibility...the loss of the ability to sleep in, stay out late, change plans at the last minute, or be alone together whenever we want...it all ends soon. We had put careful thought into the past several weekends, taking advantage of our freedoms as best we could. We ate donuts and drank chocolate milk in bed just about every Saturday morning. We have been swimming outside just about every other day this week. We went to movies. We slept through the night.

And it's not the loss of these freedoms that made me sulk, it was the pressure of how to spend Sunday. Our last day of our last weekend. In our family, we frequently referred to the term "Sundaynightitis," because we frequently had it. Weekly, actually. Sunday night brought on thoughts about Monday. Going back to work. Getting up early again. Anticipating another long, hard week, another five days until we could catch our breath again. And so, in preparing for our lives to change in the next week or so, this felt like the longest Sunday night, ever.

I feel bad that I spent much of it being indecisive about how to spend our time together. I apathetically shrugged at every suggestion my poor husband made, but he finally physically pulled me off the couch and pushed me in the direction of the car. He was determined to not catch my case of the Sundays. Wise man. We ended up going to Buffalo Wild Wings, playing trivia and eating ourselves to oblivion. As I worked my way from 12th place to 5th in the game, I looked around and realized that we could totally bring the baby. I may, however, modify my choice of wing sauce before I breastfeed.

My perspective needed to change from this being the last weekend we get with our freedoms, to this being the last weekend we have before we get to become parents. Life will change. And it will be an awesome change. It is, as Tammy said, beautiful.