Sundays. I wonder what other people’s Sundays are like. Or Saturdays, for that matter. For us, they almost always fall into one of two categories.

There’s the active Sunday when we go places, usually someplace outdoors, or some child-oriented place like Junibacken, or errands in the city, or maybe, very occasionally, a museum. With two kids in tow anything like this becomes a full-day project. We start packing and preparing as soon as we finish breakfast, and get back home just barely in time to mix up something quick for dinner. Pasta and a tin of tomato sauce is the usual solution, or something equally unambitious. By the time we’ve eaten, I am usually knackered, and looking forward to Monday when I can rest and recuperate at work. Which feels sort of backwards.

There’s the get-things-done Sunday when we mow the lawn or lay paving stones or carry furniture from one end of the house to the other. One of us works while the other tries to keep Adrian out of the way. Who takes what role depends on the job, and we usually switch throughout the day. Ingrid spends most of the day complaining about boredom. At some point during the day one of us takes both kids and goes to the supermarket, or drops Ingrid of at a friend’s, to try to minimize the complaining. On these Sundays we are more likely to plan and cook a proper dinner, usually even something slightly more fun and elaborate than the usual weekday fare.

My dream Sunday starts with a fine Sunday breakfast and ends with a fine Sunday dinner, and in between the day is both restful and fun. But in reality there is no way I can fit all of those things into a single day.