I don't really look forward to weekends. There. I said it.
Weekends wreak havoc on my routines. The house gets messy. Plans get made, but are rarely kept, for reasons both within and beyond our control. The house seems crowded and we (all three of us) have little spats and tiffs we don't have during the week.
The television stays on too much of the time. We stay up late Friday night just because we can, then sleep too late Saturday morning. We feel lazy, sluggish and grouchy all day because of it, but we still repeat the pattern Saturday night and Sunday morning.
There are exceptions, of course, and enough of them for me to go on having great expectations for carefree weekends with my family. Mostly, though, I wind up feeling mildly dejected by the time the weekend is over.
For instance, let me tell you about this last weekend. It was so underwhelming that I have nothing to say.
Please don't misunderstand; I love my family. But I think Monday mornings are the best. Everyone is up early. Routines are back in place and we're all where we're supposed to be. I can put the house in order and it stays that way for more than five minutes. I can actually hear myself think.
All is calm, all is bright...
until it all hits the fan again by quittin' time tonight.
