(Originally appeared in Sense and Psychotherapy, Winter 2001)
One of the few benefits of being a small child in our house was that we got to stay home while the school age kids went off to church on Sunday mornings. Some of my earliest (and fondest) memories are of crawling into bed with my father while Mom and the rest of the gang got dressed and left for church. I’d sit and chat with Dad, rub his back and laugh with delight while he made his funny noises when I’d walk along his back.
We’d soon get up and he’d put on his records, usually Herb Albert and The Tijuana Brass Band, or his box set of Arthur Fiedler’s Boston Pops. I’d march circles around the living room, envisioning myself part of a marching band, parading down Main street of some imaginary town. As the smell of bacon or sausage began to waft through the house from the kitchen, I knew the others would be coming home soon. The house would fill with the pent-up energy of my brothers and sister, and we’d all sit down together for a big breakfast of fried eggs, pancakes, or my favorite, French toast. We’d linger around the table and fight over who got the biggest slice of coffee cake.
Even as a college student, I could never quite shake the ritual of the big Sunday breakfast. Through the week, I’d always eat cereal or toast, but Sundays just never felt complete unless I’d done something special for breakfast.
Through the early years of our marriage, my husband and I would often grab the newspaper and go out for breakfast on Sundays. For a couple of years after our son was born, we seldom went out to eat at any time of day. However, we continued to find ways to make Sunday breakfast an important part of our week.
These days, it is not uncommon for our weekends to start with my son asking if we’ll have a “family breakfast” on Sunday. Although our morning ritual is very different in many ways from when I was a kid, he’s made it clear to me that he also values those times when we all sit down together for a leisurely, cholesterol laden, old-fashioned breakfast.
Even if we don’t consciously think of this as a “ritual” in the traditional sense, we, like other families, have developed set patterns of behavior that add meaning and depth to our life. We set aside this time each week just for each other, and this simple act helps us define who we are as a family. Not only are so many of the same elements of Sunday breakfast that I remember so fondly from my childhood now present for my son, they were also part of my mother’s childhood.
I am grateful my parents honored Sunday mornings with such a regular, predictably special meal. I feel fortunate to be able to give my son the same gift, and hope that as he goes through his life, he also will take the time to sit down with his loved ones and celebrate their presence with a hearty breakfast.
