Weekends
by Ashley Weeks Cart
My eyes lazily and begrudgingly open to a silhouette of spiky, tousled hair and fuzzy appendages. I register the presence of a toddler armed with Care Bears, a blanket, and a baby doll as my body registers a continued state of exhaustion.
Climb on in.
I reach for my phone, the bright display illuminating the room, causing our dilated pupils to recoil.
Ouch.
6:17 a.m.
Double ouch.
I should still be sleeping. YOU should still be sleeping.
But I pull her in close.
Perhaps we’ll snuggle together and drift back to sleep peacefully for another hour or two…
My eyes close… then WHACK! An elbow meets my nose. THUD! A knee lodges into my gut.
Or not…
As I duck and dodge assault from an awakening toddler, whines crawl up the stairwell.
Fine! I’m up! We’re up!
I throw off the covers and am struck instantly by the unappealing chill of the morning air.
We should probably admit defeat and program our heat to turn on at the same time seven days a week, but we hold out a kernel of hope that we might not be awakened until the 8s on a Saturday or Sunday. Our thermostat the symbol of our eternal optimism, of a former life when the weekends represented a time of sleeping in and leisure mornings, of lazy days and reading or cooking or shopping or movie watching or dating or *name enjoyable adult activity* at will.
I combat frustration. Exhaustion. Stir craziness. My propensity to yell and temper. The weekends are far more challenging than the work week. Another unexpected twist of parenting. One of many.
_______________________________
Brunch begins at 9am, as naptime would intervene with a more civilized start of 11. We still visit. And eat. And connect over cups of steaming coffee. But the coffee is now a necessity not a luxury. And conversation is punctuated by diaper changes and breastfeeding, potty runs and coloring.
This is the new normal. The new weekend. We adjust expectations and welcome the perspective of this growing gaggle of girls.
