When my husband and I were living the good life in Brooklyn Heights, in my our two-floor loft (don't get excited it was only about 750 square foot and had a leaking roof that we could never quite fix no matter how many handy men took at stab at it) weekends were spent lazily reading the New York Times, gardening on our deck, perusing estate sales, biking over the Brooklyn Bridge to Battery Park City and of course lavishing every last bit of love on our little Shih Tzu.
The mere thought of kids and how we could possibly work them into our carefully crafted activities line-up were a distant far off future consideration.
15 years and two kids later our weekends are a far cry from those shiny, fresh off wedded bliss ones. It's basketball, Hebrew School for my son-and driving my daughter somewhere and handing off my wallet like George Jetson. And then it's off to a kid-centric butter cream fueled birthday party, play date or something that likely does not involve antiquing or brunch topped off with that sweet nectar of the gods, a mimosa.
I'll be honest there are Saturdays and Sundays when the sheen on this parenting thing begins to wear thin. It's usually when my son, gets in bed with me at 6:30 am to pontificate about The Cosmos ( when all I really want to do is be selfish and sleep) or when my daughter decides it is a good idea to bring her entire track team over to our house and convert our kitchen into a bakery that I yearn for those kid-free Sundays when the most critical question of the day was do we have enough champagne for all the mimosas I'd like to consume?