It's quarter 'till eleven on Sunday night and I'm shaking my head. This was not a weekend. It can't have been. Aren't weekends supposed to be, I don't know, relaxing? Or at the very least, a least a break from the monotony of the five days pressed between them?
Sure, sure, children didn't have school and teachers didn't have to teach and most 9-5'ers didn't have to punch the clocks. Even my father was puttering around the house in his standard weekend attire (saggy jogging suit that's thinning through at the knees and elbows circa 1987 and tube socks) and my mother was busy cleaning things that have since been crumb scattered and fingerprint smeared by my son. So, yes, I concede that this was a weekend for most everyone else.
But for me? This was not a weekend. And I blame my husband.
After much loving encouragement (or nagging, depending on who you ask), my husband applied for a promotion within his company and was (as I assured him he would be) quickly accepted and promoted. Two weeks ago he began his wonderful new job, with the wonderful new salary (and the wonderfully longer commute), and a new schedule to settle into.
This new schedule requires him to work at least one weekend day most every week of the year. Or, as was the case for these past two weeks, *both* weekend days.
I understand that there are sacrifices to be made, and I understand that this is really the result of my prodding him to "move up" and away from his comfy, predictable position where he had hired someone to work the weekends for him.
It's not that I regret my nudging him forward - it was a shift that was inevitable in the long run, and when better to do it than at a time when we are homeless and could really use the money? But still, for me a weekend just isn't a weekend without having him in the same space as me, whether it be in a car, a house, a hotel or a trailer (which is becoming an even more appealing option the longer we stay at my parents house. The jogging suit is really not pretty.)
Sure, sure, children didn't have school and teachers didn't have to teach and most 9-5'ers didn't have to punch the clocks. Even my father was puttering around the house in his standard weekend attire (saggy jogging suit that's thinning through at the knees and elbows circa 1987 and tube socks) and my mother was busy cleaning things that have since been crumb scattered and fingerprint smeared by my son. So, yes, I concede that this was a weekend for most everyone else.
But for me? This was not a weekend. And I blame my husband.
After much loving encouragement (or nagging, depending on who you ask), my husband applied for a promotion within his company and was (as I assured him he would be) quickly accepted and promoted. Two weeks ago he began his wonderful new job, with the wonderful new salary (and the wonderfully longer commute), and a new schedule to settle into.
This new schedule requires him to work at least one weekend day most every week of the year. Or, as was the case for these past two weeks, *both* weekend days.
I understand that there are sacrifices to be made, and I understand that this is really the result of my prodding him to "move up" and away from his comfy, predictable position where he had hired someone to work the weekends for him.
It's not that I regret my nudging him forward - it was a shift that was inevitable in the long run, and when better to do it than at a time when we are homeless and could really use the money? But still, for me a weekend just isn't a weekend without having him in the same space as me, whether it be in a car, a house, a hotel or a trailer (which is becoming an even more appealing option the longer we stay at my parents house. The jogging suit is really not pretty.)
5 Comments:
Though we are consumed to progress in our careers, there is by far something to be said about quality of life.
It is the joy of spending time with my partner and our soon to be child that drives me to both work hard and also spend time with them both.
Chase the quality time for the weekend, it is what makes the hard week of work bareable.
Homeless, I haven't been that for a very long time, and then only briefly. At the moment I am dual-homed, scraping together whatever I can find to build one while selling the other.
The new one is farther away and will increase the time away from the family, but it's closer to relatives and away from big city schools.
Trying to strike the perfect balance is exceedingly difficult.
Good luck and bear with it, things WILL normalize, whatever that means!
Weird
Let me see...? To quote you, "Somewhere between a blank page and the empty sky," that was your weekend. Don't make that your week days. Otherwise you'll have to fall from the empty sky and perhaps never land.
Mella,
It could be worse. Some people might enjoy the weekend better if there spouse were NOT around. That would be a sadder life.
For us, weekends often seem like more work than our jobs. With two active girls waiting for spring to arrive. In Ontario spring is one weekend in early May. But we still love those two days off. "Home days" our daughter calls them. Of course, no time for blogging for me. I last posted in January while in winter break. Maybe today....
Congratulations, by the way. I have not been reading your blog for a while, and was very happy for you regarding the heartbeat. By coincidence 157 is exactly the number of times this last weekend that I told my older daughter Natalie to stop teasing her little sister Sylvie.
Which proves that there's no free lunch, doesn't it? I suspect this will feel a whole lot less uncomfortable when you move and it's your own home you're abandoned in.
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