I was always pretty certain that Monday would come. It surprised me, this wild abandonment that some of the other children had on Friday afternoon’s bus. How easily they jumped on the green pleather seats and flung every care out the rectangular windows — betting that Saturday would last forever, or somehow Sunday would come to the rescue. 

I suppose a bit of me envied it. But not enough to not finish my homework on Friday afternoon. And it wasn’t like someone was forcing me. I felt no pressure from my mother or friends. I had found my own way of setting myself free. Once the work was done, I could enjoy my Saturday. Take away Sunday’s panic. I didn’t have the words for it then, but it was definitely self care. 

All of the routines that I had made for myself in Minneapolis flew out the bus window when I moved to France. Practices and solutions all needed to be changed. Modified. Easily sending me into a frenzied Sunday on any day of the week. “But this is how I used to do it… But why can’t I…” It takes me a minute to give up the argument, but when I do, I can usually find a new solution. 

As with most things, I was given the tools long ago. I just have to remember to use them. And I want to keep learning. Changing. Growing. Keep giving to myself, in my own peculiar way, the ability to feel Saturday’s wind in my hair, Sunday’s “there, there…” and all the possibility that Monday can bring.