Posted on | May 28, 2013 | 9 Comments
I have to admit that I was dreading the three day weekend
We had no plans, no where to go, no play dates scheduled or set up and nothing new to play with. We’re on a budget that was on its last leg so that ruled out trips to, well, anywhere that cost money, and our food supply consisted of PB&J and veggie hot dogs. Every time I thought about three days alone with my rambunctious child, I wanted to cry.
It isn’t that I don’t love him and love spending time with him… it’s just that… 36 hours is a long time to single-handedly entertain a three year old. He’s stopped napping, he doesn’t go to sleep at a reasonable hour unless I’m lying beside him, and I’ve put a limit on the minutes of television that can be watched in one day. So yeah… facing three whole days was not making me feel like a shiny happy person.
Regardless, Saturday morning came and J woke up and nuzzled close to me with a grin. His eyes were barely open but he still loudly announced that “THIS IS A STAY HOME DAY AND THEN TWO MORE” and I had to smile. See, for all that I dread coming up with activities to keep him engaged and entertained, he is equally excited just to have three days of my company. He was thrilled just to spend 36 (waking) hours next to me, being a part of my space and a part of my every day.
I can’t say we didn’t struggle through many, MANY moments this weekend.
I can’t say that I wish every weekend was a three day weekend for me, alone with J.
But once I stopped trying so hard to entertain him and just started enjoying him we had a lot more fun. I think sometimes I feel like he’s only going to have fun if he’s out and about. Like I have to find top dollar entertainment because who could possibly enjoy kicking a red Olivia ball back and forth in the yard for an hour? Who could possibly want to spend thirty minutes drawing with chalk and then thirty more minutes blowing on the drawings to make them disappear? Only, obviously, a three year old would. A three year old does. As long as I am there, too.
This weekend was a nice reminder that what matters to J is just that I’m there… even if we’re eating PB&J for the third time in three days. Even when we’re sitting on an old mattress pad for a blanket on the back patio and blowing homemade bubbles that just didn’t quite make, well, bubbles. Even when we’re doing absolutely, positively nothing of any consequence. What matters to him is what should matter to me… we’re together, just the two of us.
For three whole days.
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