"My weekend is almost over," Peter lamented this morning as he was eating his cereal.
"Mine too," I said.
Rolling his eyes a little Peter replied, "But you don't work."
Right, I thought as I quickly recounted in my mind the meals I prepared on Saturday, the laundry I did, the cleaning I did, the shuttling to play dates I did, the kid's homework I oversaw, the piano practice I had to force Sarah to do and then help her with, the fights I broke up, and all the similar things I will be doing today (which is Sunday, a day of rest).
"I'm always at work," I replied.
"Yeah, but you don't have to do anything."
Hmmm...looks like I've been given the permission to take the weekend off. Perhaps I will try it next weekend. It's a long weekend after all. No cooking, no cleaning, no laundry, no shuttling, no homework, no piano or guitar practice, no grocery shopping, no....
I would love to take the weekend off. But the problem with that? I'm the one that would have to clean up everything when the weekend off was over.
The laundry pile would be huge, the kitchen would be a mess (not to mention the rest of the house), Peter's May project wouldn't be finished, Sarah wouldn't be ready for piano practice, the cats would be hungry because apparently I'm the only one around here that ever feeds them, the bills wouldn't be paid...
On second thought, I'll just keep right on "not working" through the weekends.