I’m always over caffeinated on Fridays. The second cup, or press, or pot, always sounds like a good plan. The day is rife with relief, it’s Friday, support is home for two full days in only 9 hours. But the day is rife with the weight of the week too, the hours on hours that it’s been only us, only me, and the relief is still 9 hours out.
We keep Fridays as a home day as often as we can, but fill it with fun and connection. Today I took a bath, two kids joined me, the kindle nearly got drowned, and the chocolate I planned on eating got some bubbles on it (still ate it) but it was still a warm spot in a snow day.
When the clock gets to three, no matter how present I attempt to be, I start to feel that tick tock of my own count-down.
Yes, weekends mean nothing. My job is my job, 24 hours a day and 7 days a week. But the weekends mean my best friend, mean a co-parent, mean help, mean support, mean someone to share looks with over their heads of “can you believe this is our life?” in the best ways, the hardest ways, the most magic ways, and the “can we take it back for a day?” ways.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t count it down so much. I wish I could just be engaged every minute of that Friday afternoon. But I am not. I’m romanticizing the evening. I’d say it’s a fantasy, but it’s not because sometimes it comes true.
He comes in the door and the Chorus sings. “Papa Papa!! We’ve missed you all day!” and my heart comes home to a moment “you’re here”. My partner in the kitchen, in the game playing, the chase games, in the “crank the Christmas music!”, in bedtime routines and admiring snoring babies, in cozy-cuddle-me-kiss-me-once-more.
The weekend may mean nothing as a SAHM, but for me the weekend means it all.
Friday afternoon, in all your bright snow and early darkness, wrap me up.