On Friday morning, I tweeted this:
As a weekend of mundane chores and To Do lists opened up before me like a yawning chasm of drudgery, I sighed over the days when weekends were different.
It’s over three years ago now – more like four really – when weekends meant late nights on dancefloors, drinks in the pub, shopping trips and lazy afternoons at the cinema. In the absence of swimming lessons or trips to the tip, Sundays were spent sleeping in until midday, followed by an impromptu pub lunch and an evening in front of a DVD.
These days, weekends are punctuated with a morning in a cold swimming pool, a flurry of housework and piles of dirty laundry.
The thing is, I actually rather like weekends full of the mundane minutae of domestic life. Being a busy family, we’re often rushing around the country to see friends or relatives. If we’re not off visiting someone, I’m likely to be at a work event or meeting a deadline. Call me old, but Monday sometimes sees me a broken woman, yearning for a couple of days at home with nothing much to do.
A morning pottering around the garden with my toddler, faffing around with bits of blossom and rogue dandelions was actually just what I needed yesterday. Boring it may be, but it was also calm and strangely satisfying. (My 21 year old self is mortified at that last sentence).
Although Mother Guilt often makes an appearance in my life these days, Weekend Guilt has long gone. And I don’t miss it one little bit.
If the mundane means a weekend spent with two people I love very much, then bring it on.