How to Waste 48 Hours

Every weekend starts out the same way. Forty-eight hours stretch ahead of you with so much promise. You can finally paint that doorway, bake those cookies, and clean that toilet.

Forty-eight hours.
No more. No less.
And oh, the possibilities. 
I know I did something useful this weekend. I’m sure of it. The toilet was cleaned. Check!
A few loads of laundry done. Double check!
And the compost barrel is now filled with evidence that I did indeed empty the crisper drawer to make way for new produce that I full intend to cook. Sometime.
I was good. Even as I longed to leave a person-shaped dent in the couch, I resisted. Most of the time.
I’m only 43 pages into the book I just started, and that’s only because I couldn’t sleep. I swear!
So how does it happen that every Sunday night, I’m looking around the house and wondering, where did all the time go?
Why every Sunday I’m thinking NEXT weekend is the one when I’ll REALLY get things done? When that doorway will finally be rendered a pure shade of white? The cookies with the blueberries and the white chocolate chips that I’ve been craving since, well, last weekend (or so) baked and frozen to be thawed when needed?
When I will skip the five hours of wheedling and cajoling with the kid to clean her room and just send her outside to play while I tackle the mess without the “help” of someone who refuses to let anything be thrown away?
It can’t be that I’m wasting my weekends. If the toilet was cleaned, you can rest assured no time was wasted.
But while the 24 hours of a Monday pass at a snail’s pass, the 48 of the weekend get a running start and whip past me at tornado speed.

Maybe next weekend I’ll figure it out. Right after the cookies.

Have you “liked” Inside Out Motherhood on Facebook yet? 

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