The Weekend Effect

It started with soup.

That was the moment- staring down into a bowl of chicken noodle soup, that it dawned on me- possibly my irritation was unreasonable?

 It had been my turn to sleep in that Saturday (Husband and I take turns on the weekends) and even though I'd had ample sleep, I was still not prepared for the downward spiral that the next few hours proved to be.  Husband had kissed all our cheeks and headed merrily off to the gym, so naturally the children sniffed out my mellow sleepy stupor as weakness and they turned on me 37 seconds later.  They were in rare form this particular morning- they were in Beast Mode. Disciplining had to happen before even one sip of coffee found it's way to my lips. They were arguing, they were whining, they were tenacious! I was putting out fires left and right. The house was a disaster. The TV was left on for too long. One of them pooped in the bathtub. Yes. (Even though my youngest is 4, apparently these things still just "happen".) They vacillated between being "bored" and "hungry"- but not hungry for lunch mind you!  No, it had to be called a "snack". 

  The second I stepped into the shower no less than 3 dire emergencies were brought to my attention, none of which I could deal with until the soap was at least out of my eyes and my underarms were shaved. I do have my standards after all.
 My nerves were fraying quicker than the hem of one of my daughters' princess dresses.

 It was the weekend effect.

 In full effect.
 I share all of these details with you not to be negative, because in my heart of hearts I really do think my children are somewhat spectacular and I really do love being home with them on a daily basis.  No, I give full disclosure only so you can get a true feel for the kind of day I was having.
We'll call it my alibi.

These same shenanigans continued well into the afternoon when I later took the tinies on what would prove to be a raucous grocery store outing. As we pulled into the driveway I waited the customary 3+ minutes for my children to gather their belongings and vacate the car. I mean really. What on God's green earth takes so long? It's as if the moment I park the car they completely lose sight of their mission to get inside the house. They unbuckle in slow motion and then just sort of look around as if they haven't the foggiest idea what to do next. It's ridiculous. I can't even...
So as I valiantly tried to carry 17 full grocery bags inside in a single trip, I opened the door to an interesting scene. Husband was cooking. Chicken noodle soup to be exact.
"The best soup EVER", I was to be assured.

He had quite a system going. Two pots bubbled on the stove (one for the chicken, one for the stock he said) which made no sense to me at all, but I resisted commenting for fear of squashing his newly acquired soup dreams. Veggies were stacked high on the counter, seasonings strewn about, and I must admit, a very lovely scent wafted through the air.

While I wouldn't say that Husband never cooks, it is a rare enough occasion to be considered cute when it happens. He was quite proud of himself in this moment. That much was clear.
 The soup was "going to be amazing!" he informed me. He waved his ladle around animatedly as he walked me through his process. As I tried to encouragingly explain my OWN recipe and methods for making chicken noodle soup, I could see in his eyes and by the set of his shoulders that he would be heeding none of my advice. He was a man on a mission and he was not to be told how to do it.

I took my cue and stepped aside, busying myself with the 17 grocery bags, and oh yes, the children! They're still in the car! What are they even doing?
 Dinnertime came and we all sat down at the table while Husband dished us up, proud as a peacock.

"Oh man. Oh wow. Just taste that, guys! Does anyone want seconds? ...Are you sure?...of this incredible chicken soup?... Mushrooms! Did you see I added mushrooms? Brilliant!"

The soup was good. I will give him that. I was grateful to eat a meal that I didn't have to prepare.
 But his incessant raving about the blasted soup was somehow getting on my last nerve. He carried on about it well past the table clearing and dish washing- he was really piling on now. It was all on purpose of course. Partly to be funny, and partly to annoy me- because much like a 5th grade boy, this is often how he shows me affection. Yes, I know. Try not to be jealous.
 It may sound juvenile, but banter is basically our love language.
Yet this time, instead of finding it funny or cute like I normally would, I was fully annoyed. I am ashamed to admit it, but good grief! I get 3 meals on the table every day and no one throws a party about it. There's no hoots of delight, no horns tooting my praise, no confetti thrown about.
 But the man makes one batch of soup and the whole world stops turning on its axis. He is suddenly God's gift to soup!

 It was shortly after this when he retired to the couch and turned on a football game that I lost all restraint and  snapped at him. I can't recall exactly what I said but the message was clear.
 "Whoa! What's this about? Remember me? I'm the soup guy! I haven't done anything wrong!" he says.

And really he hadn't.

  My ideal Saturday had been anything but ideal and for some reason a single bowl of soup suddenly became more infuriating to me more than any bowl of soup ever should. I think it might be my own fault- because I think I often have unrealistically high expectations of weekends.

Do you know what I'm talking about? That THING with weekends? Just like the "thing" with the dinner hour and the "thing" with important phone calls. It's like Murphy's Law. Something is liable to go wrong.

After a long week of getting up before the sun, packing lunches, shuffling littles to their extracurriculars, monitoring homework, and basically taking care of business, I entertain visions of our family having harmonious down time together, every moment being maximized. The children behave perfectly of course. We all laugh louder and more frequently than seems natural, all chores and errands get done, goodies are baked, the house somehow stays pristine, games are played by the fire... (We don't even have a fireplace, which could be the first indicator that my expectations are somewhat misplaced.) Ah, but one day soon my littles will be bigs. They will have their own plans and their own schedules and they will not covet our attention they way they do now. They will not be happy to simply cuddle up and watch a cartoon on my lap. They will not be so easily excited with small things like baking cookies or painting toenails or playing hide and seek.

 Maybe a lazy Saturday spent lounging around with my people in a messy house with no agenda is just what the doctor ordered. Soup fights and all.

 I am happy to report that every once in a while your ideal scenario actually DOES get to happen. This weekend was quite a different picture. Somehow there was time for it all! We decorated cookies, we read books, we slept in, we played outside.  Husband and I invented a game that required us to throw dignity out the window and become 'sleeping bag monsters'  just to hear the kids belly-laugh. The house got cleaned, the groceries got purchased, we managed a date night, and there was even time for a family campout in a fort the size of our living room.

Coincidentally, Husband tried his hand at another new soup this weekend (sweet potato) and this time as he mused about whether he might've used too much nutmeg, I found him to be adorable. All is right in the world again.