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Sunday Scaries…

A week spent amongst Chickens is always good for the soul. A holiday week spent with Chickens in a brand new home and a first Thanksgiving dinner is a treasure. It’s Middle Chicken and Lawyer Boy’s new home and their first holiday in it. Le Sigh.

Alas, Oldest Chicken and Baby Pea are on their honeymoon so Chicken gathering includes just the girls. And Lawyer Boy for good measure. Like most boys, he drifts in and out. Of both the room and the conversations. Poor thing.

This mother never claims to be hip, with it or up-to-date. Trends flaunt themselves and I eschew most, continuing to believe pearls are the perfect complement to any skin tone, a bath can wash away troubles, Pinot Noir is the elixir of the gods, and a dirty martini, two olives, extra dirty is the anecdote to a day spent with idiots. Oh, and that Sundays are the night we don’t sleep.

The Scream (1895) by Edvard Munch. Original from The Art Institute of Chicago. Digitally enhanced by rawpixel.

The trend exception, generally, is word and book news. Color me shocked when I find a new phrase, perhaps it’s new–what if it’s not and I’ve been locked away so long my word radar has suffered?

Turns out, according to Baby Chicken, there’s a word for that Sunday not sleep, kinda grouchy, panicky weirdo thing.

I’ve spent a lifetime not sleeping on Sunday nights, rolling over Mondays in my mind, laying out clothes and lunches in anticipation of the week, all while a ball of angst. Not once, in my neurosis, did it occur other people suffered same. Turns out everyone does and it’s known across the land as the Sunday Scaries.

Example: Baby Chicken and I are doing occasional vacation work–the new way we take breaks from our offices-you take the PTO but work anyway. Middle Chicken is getting agitated, pacing a bit, organizing and is not her usual cheery self.

“Babydoll, are you okay?” ask I.

“It’s okay,’ pipes Baby Chicken. “She’s just got the Sunday Scaries.”

My head does a private internal exorcist turn. It happens to other people? No need for explanation. The term sums up a lifetime of Sunday afternoon/evening white knuckle grip and dread. In an effort to not look, again, hopelessly behind the term trends, I nod. As if I knew. Pfft.

Perhaps if we were more adept at sharing our neuroses, we might not spend a lifetime thinking, “I’m the only one.” On the other hand, if we allow one to spill forth, will they all pour out, a rushing river unable to cap.

This Sunday, home from the holiday, I still gather my wares for Monday, hit the grocery store, do the wash, clean and spiff up for the week. And then, lay staring at the ceiling, remembering all the work I did not do on vacation, including write a blog, feel guilty over leaving Skittish Tabby, replay conversations where I said the wrong thing, wonder if my hair will look better this week than last, ponder a new computer, wish to be out in the world wearing dresses again, pull a hang nail, worry over budget which leads to what I might do with a billion dollars as I listened to a podcast about Rupert Murdoch before bed, pray for sleep, remind myself not to check the time and then curse the 5:30 alarm.

Well played, Sunday Scaries, well played.

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