I hate Sunday, because I should love it. But everybody needs to eat on Sunday, which requires cooking to begin with and by-produces dirty dishes and diapers just like any other day. Obviously there are all the complications that go into getting everyone to church while remembering to keep my voice down so the nice people on their way to church won't hear the all the yelling that goes on in their beautiful parsonage. Dad has to spend the afternoon pulling oxen out of wells. It wouldn't be a big deal except that I have this baptismally implanted notion that Sunday should be a day of rest. So I spend the whole day thinking about how it's Sunday and I should be resting instead of doing all the normal stuff plus. Then I get crabby.