Long Weekends

There is so much to be said for routine.  I suppose you could say a bunch of negative things about it and how the lack of spontaneity breeds resentment for the mundane or that being pre-30 should give us all plenty of wiggle room to flap our wings and sow our seeds, but no matter how much you rail against it, I will always think that most days need it. It’s the framework on which my sanity hangs.

Seven o’clock wake up. Nine o’clock naptime (quiet time, showers, general clean up ensues). Eleven thirty to twelve thirty lunches.  One o’clock naptime (design and thinking begins). Three o’clock snack (hopefully by the pool).  Five o’clock clean up. Six o’clock supper.  Six thirty bathtime. Asleep by seven (Seven o’clock clean up). Three hours with the hubs to hang out.  This is what life is made of. And I’m so glad.

But weekends shift the schedule and things get a little looser.  It’s not bad.  It’s actually very good. Good for my sanity. Good for Gideon’s time with Dada. Good to breathe a little easier and look at the clock a lot less. By the time Monday rolls into town, though, I’m usually ready for the structure once again.  I’m clinging to the clock to check off my little boxes of to-do bliss. 

There were times when I thought that being at home might make me loose hope in accomplishing anything.  There are still times when the worst is realized.  And then there are days like today.  Supper is ready to go (lasagna, made during the morning nap), the house is picked up and actually pretty clean, the swimsuits are ready for our afternoon out (in flagrant disregard of the forecast), and he’s had two great naps today. Check. Check. Check.