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"Aren't you glad it's Friday?" people seem to be saying a lot these days, as everyone's busy fall schedules catch up with them. And yes, Friday is a lovely night. Now that we never go out--ever--we've started a tradition of making challah. Aaron mixes up the rich, eggy bread dough before bed on Thursday and I take it out of the fridge to rise then braid and bake it in time for Friday dinner.
This past Friday we had Aaron's siblings over for a Sabbath dinner, and it was so nice to celebrate the week in such a traditional way (Aaron was brought up in a much more observant Jewish household than I was). They were all excited about the weekend and I tried to feel it.
I do recall shouting "TGIF" not so many weeks ago, when the prospect of having Aaron home from work for 2 days to help with the baby was just so thrilling. Company! Adult conversation! 50% less chance of having to deal with the inevitable diaper blow-out! Someone to get me a glass of water while I'm nursing!
Sure it's great, finishing up the week and being all together as a little family of three for 2 days. But in case you can't see where this is going, I'll cut to the chase: I've been feeling ambivalent about the weekends these days. So much so, in fact, that when Monday comes around I'm relieved.
I'm not sure what has changed exactly, except that I've started screwing up Saturday by angsting about what to do. How much time should I spend trying to get work done while Aaron takes Leo? How much trying to catch up with the housework and complete the major job of rearranging that we began weeks ago? How much time should I spend with my two favorite guys, how much time making a big pot of chili to last a few weeknights, and how much time doing something for myself like exercising, reading or soaking in the tub? Suffice it to say I get very little done and am grumpy, confused and confusing.
Then there's Sunday, which is a reminder that I have squandered Saturday, but with the added gloom of Monday encroaching. By the time Monday actually arrives and I simply have to kiss my husband goodbye then care for my child, I'm just glad it's all over.
I've never been great at prioritizing, and I've always made a mess of things when there's an opportunity to procrastinate, but this is downright ridiculous. I have basically nice options and as soon as I accept that I must choose just a few from the list, my weekends can proceed pleasantly. Yet this simple step eludes me.
Where once I had the leisure to put things off and sit around thinking about myself, I'm now thinking about someone else so constantly that with any slight loosening of that bond, any moment when I have the opportunity to make choices from my point of view rather than Leo's, I spin my wheels. What do I want to do? I don't know, maybe fold burp cloths? No, that doesn't sound right. Look online for a rug since our hardwood floors seem to be frustrating Leo's crawling attempts?
What I would really like is to have 5 days of weekends and 2 days of week. Who wouldn't? Until Congress decides to make that little correction on our calendar, I'll have to take the bull by the horns. Next Saturday, when my darling, hard-working husband is home playing with our smiley little sweet potato of a boy, I think I'll strike while the iron is hot. After all, in my heart of hearts, I know what to do, I feel it in my bones: I need to go back to bed. Maybe then I'll be able to think clearly.