Blue Jeans & Jelly Beans
I used to look forward to weekends. Society and the media told me that weekends are for sleeping in hedonistically late, relaxing with the newspaper, basking in the sun, and sharing quality time with those I love. I believed this, even back when I worked full time, but I must have been ignoring the facts. For one thing, while I did sleep in late, that was just to make up for my chronic sleep deprivation. It wasn't luxurious, just imperative.
And yes, I did take a long time over the newspaper, but I was always unprepared for the disgusting sight two hours later: sections pulled to pieces, ink on the tablecloth, and badly printed color pullouts strewn among the bagel crumbs.
Finally, about noon on Saturday morning, I'd suddenly realize that I still had laundry, chores and errands to do, and that the day was half over already. So much for basking, let alone quality time.
Once I started staying home to raise our kids, I thought I had the answer. I'd try to get the housework done on the weekdays, while taking care of the kids, so that I could have Saturday and Sunday free. And then, I schemed, my husband would be home, so I could sneak off and have a few hours to myself.
I was wrong once again. I rarely got all the chores done before Saturday, especially when the kids were small. And my husband had his own plans for relaxing on the weekend. Even when he gave me the baby-sitting coverage I wanted, I felt guilty about it instead of carefree.
It hasn't gotten any better with the kids older. They don't need changing and burping any more, but they make a lot more mess. A few weeks ago, along about 3 p.m. on a Sunday, I lost it. After waiting all day for them to pick up after themselves, I looked around at the pajamas on the floor, the dishes on the counter, the toys in the living room, and my zombie-eyed family zoning out on a computer game, and I hollered, "Something has to change!"
Well, it did. What changed was me and my expectations. I realized I can't relax on weekends: I have more humans at home, needing more food and making more mess, than I do during the week. I at last accepted that I simply have to work my hardest on those two days.
The next weekend I tried out my new attitude, and I was amazed. Just by waking up expecting to work hard, instead of expecting to take it easy, I felt energetic instead of resentful. So of course the weekend went better. I even got the kids to pick up a bit more.
And then I discovered the corollary: My time off comes all through the week. I am learning to relish the blissful moment when I return home after taking the kids to school. I stand in the hallway, watching the dust motes dance in the sunlight, and listen to the silence. I might get to go for a hike or practice the piano. Or, if I have work to do, I'm going to do it when I want, how I want, and in the order I want, and that's freedom. Even if I have someone home sick to take care of, I can read a book while they take the mandatory nap.
So I finally figured out that the whole "weekend" concept is a crock. But the necessity of my own time isn't. I'm just going to make it happen, and appreciate it, whenever I can.
Passarelli is a Mountain View resident and mother of three.