I work 4 days a week and I’m very lucky that the in-laws looks after the boys on a Monday and Tuesday. I’m even luckier in that they sleep over at Nanny & Grandad’s on a Monday night. Yes, that’s right folks, Monday nights are a CHILD FREE ZONE in this house.
Don’t get me wrong, I miss those two monkeys like crazy and it’s very odd in the house without them…but on the flip-side, a tiny (ok, medium to large-sized ) part of me does a celebratory dance when I get back from work, knowing that I have an evening to myself. That my tired body doesn’t have to drag itself up and down the stairs multiple times to take someone to the toilet/tuck them in (again), sort out an itchy label on pyjamas, shoo away a monster, retrieve a lost dummy/blanket, threaten to take away said dummy/blanket if they keep getting out of bed…you get the picture. Don’t judge me, but my Monday evenings are sacred.
When I first went back to work in August, I think hubby thought that child-free Mondays meant that we could – for one night only – be young, carefree and wild again. Oh what a silly billy. He’s come to learn that Monday’s are really about trying to restore the house to some sort of order before the boys come home and wreck it again, having a nice meal on the sofa (naughty, I know), zoning out to some trashy tv and then racing up to bed (alone) to make the most of a potential 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep. Oh sweet bed, how I love thee.
When I’m woken by my alarm on a Tuesday morning (a total rarity) in a sleepy daze, I momentarily wonder where the boys are and then remember (with a slightly heavy heart) that I won’t get to see their beautiful smiles before I leave for work. Funny how after a night’s rest, that the need for ‘me time’ no longer seems important and all I can do is clock watch for the rest of the day, until I see their squidgy little faces again.
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