Pulling it Together

Irish Breakfast

It’s Sunday afternoon. No matter what stage of adult life I find myself, Sunday afternoon seems to feel very similar. It’s those final hours of daylight I have to prepare myself for the week ahead. And the manner in which I spend these hours has some kind of impact on the type of week I will have.

As an undergrad student, Sunday afternoon was a time to order my week and determine how I would complete my readings and work on enough of my assignments to reach my due dates on time. All of this had to occur around errands, chores and work throughout the week. And when I was learning a new language, it was the only part of Sunday when I had time to review my language materials. During my postgrad study, it was the hours where I could fire off a few hundred words more, reach the target I had set 7 days earlier, and start the week with a clean slate. That was rare. I spent month upon month playing catch up to myself, but only being responsible to myself. There are a handful of benefits to having a negligent supervisor.

When I was working full time, Sunday afternoon was the time to inject some calm into the week. I would iron my clothes for the work week. I would prepare what snacks and meals I could, so I had food on hand. This was the time in life I was planning my wedding, and Sunday night meant dinner with my fiance. This acted as brilliant motivator for getting everything done. Completing tasks on Sunday afternoon gave me more time to consider wedding details during the week. And I was rewarded with the best dinner company I could imagine.

When I was a working mother, Sunday was the afternoon to lament the week ahead. It was peppered with lists and anxiety, the feeling that I never got on top of the previous week, and was unlikely to get on top of this week. I had to live each day in an anxious grip of fear and pain. I was sick and I had an injury, both of which inhibited my ability to be a good mother. I was desperately vying for promotion at work, only later to discover I was chasing an imaginary carrot. I was never at home when I was at home, and I wanted to be with my Little Lad when I was at work. Sunday afternoon was the time to be with my boy, to be with my Main Man and to hope that this week would be better. Unfortunately, the weeks never got better. I only got sicker.

And here I am now: living away from the city that feeds my anxiety, body gripped by chronic fatigue syndrome, back injury and PTSD. Unable to work, largely unable to mother. My Main Man is a Super Dad to our Little Lad, and I spend my weeks resting, predominantly in the hope my health will improve. And Sunday afternoon is the time to focus on a good week ahead. I’ve been imagining and attempting to engineer good weeks for a couple of months since we arrived in the country, but they haven’t been forthcoming. But still, I try. Two Sundays ago, I found myself planning a good week. And for the first time in over a year, I had one. I exercised every day, and noticed a reduction in my level of pain. My mood improved. I was present with LL more than I had been since he was a dependent infant. So last Sunday, I felt invincible, I could have another good week. Then Monday arrived and I had not slept the night before. The week was off to a rocky start. But I would not be deterred. I listened to my body and slowed down, hoping for a better day Tuesday. Tuesday arrived and I seized it with both hands. It was a good day, or so I told myself. The week was back on track, even though I was feeling more weary than I ought to. And then Wednesday came. I got up, slowly. I spent the morning with my family. And by 11am, I collapsed back into bed, where I stayed. I couldn’t believe the week was not going to pan out. Wednesday night came, and I didn’t sleep more than 10 minutes at a stretch. I was getting a cold, my burning throat swelled and I struggled to swallow. Thursday, Friday, Saturday: the cold took over and I was slave to it. Today I roused myself from bed, very late, and took stock of my Sunday afternoon, the cold still lingering.

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The house is untidy, my library books are overdue and a week’s worth of expectations have been swept aside. But Sunday afternoon feels the same. I’ll attempt to tidy something. I’ll fill my planner with my hopes for the week, though they have dwindled in number from my former years. Each day will contain something like: exercise, read, write, spend time with LL. Maybe just 2 chores this week. That should be achievable.

And here rests the cup of Irish Breakfast. A faithful cup, but in its own way, a little disappointing. Despite its names, I’ve always preferred to drink it in the afternoon. It is bold with a musky flavour and malty notes. It isn’t smooth, so milk and sweetener are almost a must. And though I’ve tried, time and time again to like the T2 version, I struggle to elevate it over Twinings. But I go back to it. I hope it will improve. It hasn’t yet, but a good cup could be on its way. I hope it brings a good week with it.

Irish Breakfast: 2/5
Enjoy with: hope.

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