It is a Saturday night. My husband left this afternoon for a week of work in Madrid. My son is having trouble getting to sleep and keeps complaining of a sore ear, a tummy ache, a sore eyebrow (I thought that was pretty creative), anything to get me to stay up in his room and sing to him. Normally I wouldn’t, but tonight I’m a little Olympics’d out and really don’t have anything else to do, so I don’t mind.
I’m sure you’re all feeling this on some level and on some weekends more than others, but holy cow is life a little different. And by a little, I mean a lot. A Saturday night in front of the computer is so lame. And somehow I’m really ok with it, I’m super tired, I have a glass of wine, I can do whatever I want (within the confines of my own home) and I’m quite happy with myself. I’ll probably be turning it in, in about 30 minutes, 10pm so lovely. I’ll wake up tomorrow feeling bright and cheerful (once I have my coffee) and all will be well. No hangover, no vague recollections of some dreadfully embarrassing event that was brought on by one too many soda pops and the same amount of cash in my wallet that was there at 6pm this evening. Brilliant.
We still have our nights out with friends but in the back of my mind I know that 7am comes around pretty quickly. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be smart to have a babysitter come at 7am Sunday morning for a few hours, just to get a sleep in. But that seems wrong. So for now I’m enjoying the stage that we’re in, happy that I have plenty of dreadfully embarrassing events from which I can draw should I feel the need.