Sitting up with Lucy in the early, early morning hours, I was thinking about why I have trouble keeping track of what day it is. It's pretty simple, actually: weekends are no longer days off. Obviously, being a mom is a 24/7/365 kind of job. But since the schedule never changes (or since there never is a schedule -- I'm not sure which), all the days are the same. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. I don't have that feeling of dread anymore that was the staple of late Sunday afternoon and evening; I used to get it right around the time the second NFL game started. I don't have to switch gears for the Monday morning rush and then again for the Friday getaway. It's all the same, sweatpanted, barfed-on, baby-snuggling bliss.
On the flip side, my husband has to go from day job to night job on weekdays. Weekends are like the second job that doesn't pay well but gets you to the next paycheck. Even though he never stops being a dad (obviously) it's almost like moonlighting. Don't tell the boss if you need to be out one day to take care of family business. Try to appear to have had 8 hours of sleep and a good workout when in reality you had 4 hours of sleep and did 547 laps around the upstairs trying to ease the gas bubbles out of the newborn's belly. I suppose it is a workout.
People hold weekends sacred because they can let it all hang out. Since mine hangs out all the time, the need to day-worship has disappeared -- and so has some of that great anticipation of free time to come. What am I doing this weekend? All the same mundane diaper-changing and feeding things I did Monday through Friday -- hopefully just in the company of my husband.