A week of 'I wish I had time to do x' and 'if only I had five minutes to do y' gather themselves up into a ball of anticipation just longing to be met with a helping hand. Unfortunately my helping hand, aka OH, has usually been similarly wishing and if-onlying and takes himself off to satisfy those needs leaving me holding the baby. Literally.
So the little ball of anticipation bubbles and boils for a while before hatching into a fully-fledged grumpious. Ever seen one?
This particular grumpy mama limps through the day pulling faces, grumbling and generally seeping negativity through ever pore. Turning an amateur psychologists eye inward I think the sudden and immediate lack of routine at the weekend leaves such a void in my morning that the whole day starts slipping away from me before I've even stumbled downstairs for breakfast. Without my usual 6am wake-up, stealth shower and the few precious moments to myself before the children start calling for me, I'm all at sea in an ocean of freedom. There's no deadline to spur me on, no school bell to beat, no swimming lesson to get to, no playgroup to open up. I am taskless, pointless and adrift.
By Saturday night I am ragged from being cross all day, wound up and disappointed by my own behaviour. But then a nice meal, a
...so much so that Monday morning hits me like a brick. Big time. I gird my loins (not a pretty sight I can assure you) and pep talk myself through the week, reaching a peak of organisation by Friday afternoon.
And thus the cycle starts over.
It's getting boring. And quite frankly it's ridiculous. I should LOVE the weekend.
Perhaps Saturdays and I should get relationship counselling. Like the film said; something's gotta give or one weekend I'm likely to explode and litter the kitchen with little pieces of frazzled mama.
And clearing up that mess would require some serious elbow grease.