Friday, I'm in Love

You know that old Cure song? The one that goes like this?

I don't care if Monday's blue
Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too
Thursday I don't care about you
It's Friday, I'm in love

Monday you can fall apart
Tuesday, Wednesday break my heart
Thursday doesn't even start
It's Friday I'm in love

Saturday, wait
And Sunday always comes too late
But Friday, never hesitate...

I don't care if Mondays black
Tuesday, Wednesday - heart attack
Thursday, never looking back
It's Friday, I'm in love

Monday, you can hold your head
Tuesday, Wednesday stay in bed
Or Thursday - watch the walls instead
It's Friday, I'm in love

Personally, I love the tempo and can sing the entire thing, but I never got the lyrics. I always thought it had to be written by a jerk. Who is only in love on Friday, and what kind of masochistic psycho would be with someone like that? No only that, but what kind of self-centered bozo would make a big show about the fact?
Now, however, I have a theory. This song was written by a stay-at-home mom. My husband is that masochist, and I am that bozo.
Keep in mind that I don't take it nearly this far. I would really really care if Daniel had a heart attack on a Tuesday or Wednesday. I love my husband every day and he is wonderful.
but, I have to admit,
I love him so much more on Friday.
With our insanely exhausting weeks, weekdays are kind of, well, crappy. "Monday you can fall apart" and we both do. Daniel gets up early for work, I get up early to baby-sit, he studies and goes to school at night, and I try to do laundry while dancing around like a monkey to keep Sam and Addie happy. Mondays stink, and I am usually close to tears by the end of our 18-hour days. Daniel comes home with a stress headache and whines a lot. We give every ounce of niceness and energy we have left to Sam. If we are going to get into a big battle, Monday is a good day to fall apart.
"Tuesday, Wednesday stay in bed" I've dreamed about this a lot, but as discussed earlier, I don't get sick days. I have however, stayed in pajamas all day more times than I'd like to admit publicly, and you can't love someone as much when you feel grodie yourself. The only inaccurate part here is that I am the one in PJs, not my love.
"Thursday, I don't care about you." It's not intentional, I'm just too numb. We are both going 24/7, he with all of his important tangible things, and me with my important and rewarding but incredibly repetitive and draining mommy duties. By Thursday, both of us are watching the walls and might not notice if one of us imploded in front of the other. I'm frustrated at going non-stop at this baby thing and feeling lonely, he's frustrated at working like a dog and having all the pressure of providing on his shoulders.
Fridays, ah, Friday, my saving grace. Friday there is a tangible change in our home. We still get up ridiculously early, I still baby-sit and attempt to clean while entertaining two infants, but we know that a break is coming. Friday is date night. Friday is the day I put on actual clothes that are not covered in spit-up (if I can find some). It is the day Daniel comes home in such a good mood that he remembers to kiss me. It's the day I get the most help with Samantha because school is a weekend away and he doesn't have to get up at 5am the next morning. We go out to dinner together--all three of us, and we stay up to watch movies after Sam is asleep. We fall asleep on the sofa 20 minutes into it. "It's Friday I'm in love!"
Daniel can spend all day Saturday catching up on the homework he blew off all week trying to spend a few hours with us girls each night, and Sunday going to meetings for church, but Friday makes it all worth it. I remember why being married is wonderful on Friday, even if it seemed like a total mystery by 10pm on Thursday.
So, it took me like 15 years, but I finally get where the Cure is coming from, and I also don't mind being a jerky bozo. I still love him, "Eight Days a Week," but that's a whole other post.

I'm Patty Hearsting it over here

Nine days. That is the record stretch I just went for not leaving the house. I was gone for exactly 1 hour that whole time. Nine entire days. How truly incredibly sad. How did this tragedy happen you ask? Well, take three days a week watching an 8-month-old without a car seat on top of your own 4-month-old and those are automatically out for venturing. Two of those nightmare days I have a husband at work and in school from 5am until 11pm so I am too much of a shell by the end of the baby-sitting day to go anywhere with the baby, and too busy trying to recover the days after to leave the house then. That makes five. Toss in two bouts of illness on the weekend--first I thought Sam was getting sick, and then I was really sick, and before you know it, nine days have gone by. Daniel even does all the shopping on Saturdays because I've always hated doing it.
On the plus side, I've never had a bottle of foundation last so long. When you only put it on every nine days, it can really go forever!
Here is the problem with not leaving the house for nine days. Sometime around day 6 or 7, the four walls of your cage become your new best friends. I don't want to leave them, they love me. Some days they are the only thing that talks back to me. My house gets me. It forgives me for leaving clean clothes in the guest room piled on the bed until I outgrow them rather than fold them neatly. Around day 7 I turn into Patty Hearst. I love my captor and will do anything for it. I spend WAY more time with the sofa than my husband (not that that is exactly a new development post-baby), so of course it truly understands me and has my loyalty. This past stretch ended on day 10, when Daniel came home and offered to watch Sam while I went to the store or something. I looked at him like he was trying to physically hurt me and said "What is wrong with you? I can't leave!"
He looked right back at me, as if there was nothing wrong and said "Why not? Is the baby hungry and you have to feed her first?"
He just didn't get it. "No, the baby is not hungry. I just can't leave. It's not worth it to get in the car, drive somewhere, get out of the car, do something. Wear real pants. Oh man, makeup. It's over a hundred degrees out there! What is the point? I have to be back in an hour anyway. I think I'll just stay here." Suddenly, I started wondering exactly when I became agoraphobic, but there it was, I was afraid to leave.
"Honey, I think this means you really need to leave. You're making a permanent dent in this sofa cushion."
"Hey, don't you dare take this out on the cushion, it isn't the sofa's fault! I love that sofa! That is Sam's favorite spot for me to sit while she practices standing which she does for at least 5 hours a day. She will not freaking sit-down when you hold her anymore! She has to use her legs, she's advanced, Daniel! I can sit in that spot and hold her and still reach the Exersaucer when Addie is playing in it, and when Sam is on the floor it's the best spot to sit and watch her roll over without making my butt hurt on the floor, and it's my favorite spot to nurse and watch TV. I love that spot and are you calling me fat!!!!???"
After that little outburst he pretty much kicked me out the door. "At least go grocery shopping or something. See you later. We'll be fine."
So I went to the store against my will. I shopped and browsed and noticed just how chipped my pedicure had become for the first time in weeks. I wore real pants (well, okay, still maternity jeans because I will NOT buy jeans in my current size, but the point is they did not have a drawstring). I talked to a grown-up checker face-to-face and legitimately smiled when they asked me if I found everything all right. I listened to my radio station in the car and did not have to sing "C is for Cookie" to try to get someone else to calm down.
When I came home, I was in a good mood and not thinking at all about poop. I call that a major victory. I smiled and said to Daniel "you have to kick me out more often." He laughed and said he'd do his best.
My house was still there and welcomed me back. What a great house not to hold a grudge.
Now I have to go. I'm getting kicked out again to go to the grocery store. Thank heaven.