Sunday, Sunday

In Germany, Sunday was the day I dreaded most. I felt isolated there; weekdays I had a routine: take kids to school, take care of the baby, pick up kids, help with homework, shopping, German lessons, and so on. Saturdays there were errands to run, things to do. But Sundays ... it was strange. We didn't go many places — everything was closed. We didn't go to church; I couldn't quite muster up the energy necessary to attend services in German. (It was all I could to to speak and understand casual conversation, but to focus on a one-hour talk? Impossible.)

Sometimes we were invited out for coffee; sometimes there was a carnival or outdoor festival. But the girls' friends tended to not be available for playdates. It rained a lot, so the weather was often dreary, thus we didn't go out a lot. And our children were very small — we had an infant. Thus Sundays were usually a dismal grey day with little to do. The house was clean, thanks to the housekeeper, and since it was rental, there weren't any projects to take care of.

On occasion I'd luck out and find a movie on the Danish channel (they used subtitles rather than dubbing everything as the Germans did). I saw the movie "Breaking Away" on one of those days; I'm not sure if I remember it fondly because it's a good movie, because it takes place in and was filmed in Bloomington, Indiana, (my adopted home state), or because it filled a void at a time when I needed it. Whichever it was, the movie remains a favorite.

I know, I know, I should have appreciated the uninterrupted family time. But you know, I had a lot of uninterrupted time. I was alone a lot. Gary worked long hours, and by the time the weekend rolled around, I was craving some sort of activity, some connection. It was better in springtime or summer, on those rare days when it was sunshiney, and we could go for bike rides and get outside, go to the beach. But for most of the year? I seem to recall only the long days without much to do.

It is better here. I know it's hot — oppressively so — but we have a backyard swimming pool to combat that. And things are open. Plus there's church, where I do get that connection. And now that the girls are older, I don't feel the same sense of being overwhelmed with them that seemed to take over my very being when they were small.

Why the sudden burst of nostalgia? I suppose it has something to do with hitting the six-month mark. We're here, we're settled and we're starting, just starting, really, to feel a part of things. I know a few people; not the same way I did in Lafayette, but still, I have people to talk to. I have a job, one that takes me places, gets me out of the house a bit. And the girls are making friends. And on a weekend when we had no real plans, I didn't feel the pain of nothing to do, but managed to relish the time and relax.

Progress. It's not always measured in large steps, but sometimes in the little things. It's all just a matter of time.