A weekend, as I recall, is supposed to be filled with laziness and fun with light sprinkles of productivity.

They are supposed to start off with a fabulous lunch with someone who flew all the way down from Iowa, followed by a tiny little birthday party at your parent’s house for your husband and son.

A weekend is also supposed to be spent possibly going to the beach or at the very least lounging around in a huge salt water pool at said parents house.  Once you get home from your parent’s house, said weekend is then supposed to be spent cleaning and reorganizing your office so you can get some writing done up in here.

Then, it’s supposed to be spent casually revising your knowledge of the French language for an exam that has to be taken next Friday.  It is also supposed to be spent revising the first and last chapters of your thesis which you really should have been doing aaaalll summer, but slacked on in order to expand your cultural horizons and gallivant on the other side of the world.

Do you know what weekends are NOT supposed to be spent doing?

They are NOT supposed to be spent fretting over how both of your children should be wearing a T-Shirt that says, “My mom ditched me to go to NYC and all she brought back was this lousy VIRUS.”

How was your weekend?  Did everything go as planned?  If so, exactly how much does your voodoo woman charge for her services and does she take American Express?

P.S. The baby is fine and barely has a temperature, and I can tell he’s fighting it off.  Go nursing!  N., on the other hand, is super duper sick.