Sunday Stew

It is Sunday tradition for my family to be in a bad mood. My siblings and I have extracted every inch of entertainment from an increasingly tiny house, my mom has reprimanded everything with a life force, and my dad has retired to his Corner of Gloom. Toys, clothes, bed sheets, unidentifiable stains mingle and get to know each other in the House of Disarray.

In a particularly stewy moment of boredom, my dad meekly suggests a trip to the museum. Although the residents of my home are not of the geeky type, we have heard great things about the museum. Mostly that it has strong air conditioning and a giant food court. All of us take an hour to pile into the car with only a minimal amount of biting, scratching, and hair-pulling.

The museum’s offerings are unexpectedly interesting. There are paintings and fossils and funny-looking busts. There’s even remnants of dead people in a variety of formats. All my siblings are inspired to make idiotic throaty noises at these, but it’s all in good fun. My mom is keeping a keen eye on our hands and movements but she’s also glad to not be trapped in a loud and hot home with us.

The trip home is a lot more relaxed. We’ve lost our momentum in the cool air of the museum and are tired out from all the not-supposed-to-be-running jogs. We stop at the closest fast food place and it serves as one last unexpected delight. We are fortified to get through another week.