I Remember The Weekends…
I remember the weekends…
when I was nineteen-years-old. I remember not having a care in the world. I remember feeling invincible, often making some pretty poor decisions. I vaguely remember the partying and the late night Taco Bell runs. I remember my friends calling me on Friday night’s asking me where I was and if I knew anyone who could get us some vodka. I remember scrambling through my contacts looking for someone over twenty-one who would supply for us. I kind of remember my friends taking care of me if I had too much to drink and waking up the next morning thinking “I’ll never drink again,” only to let a few hours pass before making plans to go out again.
While it may seem I remember a lot of these things, I really don’t remember much at all.
Fast forward a short two years and my life drastically changes. I was still having exhausting weekends, but they weren’t the after effects of vodka and burritos.
I remember the weekends…
I wasn’t able to fall asleep because I was thirty-seven weeks pregnant and I couldn’t get comfortable. I remember the Friday night’s that often turned into daylight as I was trying to console a screaming baby with colic. I remember the Saturday night’s holding my daughter who was teething and crying in pain. These were some rough times, but I remember all of these sleepless weekends like they were yesterday.
Another two years go by.
The weekends are still wearing me out.
Now I wake up to a toddler in my face at 3 in the morning, who thinks it’s a suitable time to watch Peppa Pig. I stay up late on Friday to have “Me Time” which consists of Netflix, couch and a beer. I will look at the clock and groan, knowing I’ll have to get up early because my two-year-old determines when my day begins. I spend my Saturday night’s at home with my husband and daughter. We giggle, we play and we get sugar buzzed on Kool-Aid.
Every once in awhile there’s a Friday night that I act a little bit more like my nineteen-year-old self. It’s a balance between who I am now and who I was then. I’ll go out with a few friends, have a couple beers and be home by eleven. These nights are no longer accompanied with stumbling followed by a hangover, but instead, guilt.
The weekends mean a little different to me than they did four years ago. Instead of calling someone to get me a bottle of booze, I call my husband asking where he put a bottle of milk. Instead of my late Taco Bell runs, I’ll pour a bowl of cereal and share it with a little girl who isn’t very good with a spoon.
My friends no longer take care of me from a late night of drinking. Instead, I take care of a little girl with a stomach ache because Grandma spoiled her with twenty-five pounds of chocolate. My friends don’t call me like they used to, wondering where I’m at. They know that chances are, I’m home.
I faintly remember the weekends that, I thought, were the time of my life.
It didn’t take long to realize that the weekends I’ll really remember are the ones I spend in sweatpants playing with a little girl on the living room floor.