Carwash Sundays

I like Carwash Sundays. I have grown to like the act of removing the bags that contained my husband’s clothes. It reminds of me of the fact that we still need our own place and it reminds me of how enduring my husband is. Most of his clothes and things live inside the trunk and endure the terrible heat and the occasional storm.

I’m proud of the fact that I maintain our car and make sure it is checked every few months; I bring it to the carwash station every two weeks. Usually, we associate these tasks to the husband, and I don’t normally see women bringing their cars to the station. I’m usually surrounded by fathers and drivers. The “reversal” of tasks is often because we recognize who is better at things. I bring the car to the station because Marc is better at driving. He drives most of the time and I often sleep in the passenger seat. That’s because he is better at sleeping. He can still sleep during the afternoon and I can no longer do that. I have stopped sleeping when I became a mom, (an exaggeration but you know what I mean) and so my sleeping patterns are irregular.

Also, Marc is the better sleeper because he is the better artist, which means he spends his energy working on his projects while I spend my hours mostly online, ruining my melatonin level. So Marc uses his energy well and sleeps well. During those Sunday afternoons, I make Ely sleep and leave him sleeping beside his father. Then, I start unloading Marc’s things from the car and I drive to the station.

I secretly like going to the carwash station because it takes an hour or two to finish. I sit on the same bench and read. Most of the time, I get to finish a YA novel. It’s my quiet hour, a time where I find peace. Peace, when you are a working mom, means different. You see, when you’re a working mom and your mother looks after your child, you feel perpetually guilty for many reasons. Mostly, guilty for being so lucky for having a great mother who is willing to look after her grandson after raising four girls almost all by herself. You would think she’s the one who deserves the peace and quiet (and I do not deserve an ounce) by now, and she does, but being the great Filipina mother, she extends her patience. She welcomes her grandson and raises him like her own (tantrums and all the physical and emotional pain that go with it).

That’s why I like Carwash Sundays because it has an illusion of doing an errand but you’re actually allowed to read a book and maybe finish it.

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