I don’t hate weekends. I don’t hate spending time with my son.
What I hate is that most weekends I don’t get to relax. I get envious when I see my next door neighbour take his son out somewhere, leaving his wife alone to have some time. I miss sleeping in – Cameron was awake at a gawdawful early hour this morning. Early enough that it’s noon and I’m wondering if it’s time for bed yet. Actually, it does sound like it’s nap time. I miss being able to lie down and snooze on the couch with the TV on and not feel guilty about it. I hate feeling the expectation that this is supposed to be wonderful and relaxing time and yet often feels more like work than work does. Then I feel guilty for feeling that way.
Sometimes I’m lucky and friends offer to take Cameron for a couple of hours. I love that. But it never quite feels like enough. Sometimes it makes the rest of the day that much harder, because I have an expectation of feeling relaxed and wonderful … and don’t.
Today, you see, after Cameron throwing things, hitting me, shoving toys in the fridge then refusing to take them out then screaming for fifteen minutes about it, screaming that he wanted one of my necklaces on, screaming that he wanted another one, screaming that he wanted something that was tied in a knot untied, screaming that he didn’t want to wear either of the clothing choices I gave him, screaming and throwing those clothes on the floor, and just plain screaming for no apparent reason at all … after all of that I announced that it was nap time.
Yes, taking him outside would’ve worked too, but DAMMIT I don’t feel like that right now. I don’t feel like being hyper-vigilant in a park looking out for dog poop, rough kids, broken glass, and playing ‘fetch’ when Cameron dashes for the busy street. I don’t feel like chasing after him with shoes in the back yard because there are stinging nettles, and where there aren’t there are clover flowers full of bees, and removing the lawn chair from where he’s put it so he can open the gate and get out and play his new game of escape.
Besides, he was sleepy. He was gently put in his crib and given a kiss. Then I closed his door, sat down, and wrote that I fucking hate weekends.
He screamed for Bunny, who we’d been playing with earlier in the living room. I gave him Bunny (who ‘lives’ in his bed and is a necessary sleep thing when at home so I understood that request even though it was screamed), told him that if he kept screaming I would close his bedroom door. I also said that if he could ask me nicely, I’d come and get him.
I know things will be better this afternoon.