Personal Narrative Essay: A Typical Sunday Day At My House

A typical Sunday morning at my house is a little less sleep and a lot more work. It 's early when my eyes open. The first thing she tells me is, “Mija, I want you to go to the kitchen as soon as you get your clothes on.” Not even a “Good Morning.” The market’s over at the Redlands and there 's a lot of traffic at that time. It usually takes me a bit to get up. There 's a whole routine to it; she 'd yell at me so I 'm up, make me take a shower, and have me go feed and take out the dogs. I don 't even know why we have five, our house barely fits two. Nonetheless, I love them all. I 'd be totally fine doing this if I actually woke up by myself. With enough force, I push back the quilt and lug myself out of bed. My feet make contact with the cold tile floor and I march toward the small bathroom. The sound of Elvis Crespo’s voice and the vacuum blare from the living room make up a classic Hispanic home setting. Typical during the weekends. I pushed past the door, flipped on the shower, and the cold water greeted my skin. Great. My mother always hogged the hot water to wash the sheets. I let out a deep sigh and faced the low-pressure cold water. On a dime, it changes to high pressure and feels like Satan’s hugging my back once the washing machine shuts off for a spin cycle. I washed my hair, scrubbed my arms and face, quickly toweled off, and

She takes out the Pillsbury pop biscuit cans from the refrigerator and hands them over. We don 't waste any time. Peeling away some of the label, I push my thumb against the cardboard until it gives way and makes a loud “pop.” I split it open to reveal the pre-cut biscuits, laying them on a greased up aluminum foil-covered pizza pan and threw them into the oven. My mom plucked tomatoes off their vine, chopped them up, and placed them in a bowl with some cilantro as a topping to compliment the small breakfast sandwiches we’ve been having every Sunday for