Although Cat Stevens once sang about another Saturday night, it is Friday nights that are most problematic when Herself lacks adult company. When the Offspring were small, such Friday evenings were not quite as difficult because there were still the labor-intensive child needs of entertainment, bath supervision, story time, and bedtime routines. Now that the Offspring are half-grown, though, the evening no longer has much plan or definitive structure.
The Offspring take this day off from their usual homework and taekwondo, and have their own activities. Offspring the Third spends time hanging out with his neighborhood buddies, plays with the dogs, and watches television; Offspring the Second devotes a significant amount of time to his drums, and roams his favorite internet sites and FaceBook; Offspring the First, off at college, likely enjoys time with her friends.
If Herself's Beloved comes home early enough on a Friday, sometimes they take the dogs for a walk around the block, and Herself might even have an opportunity to cook dinner for her Beloved. Tonight, however, Beloved is out at a particular function -- the culmination of several late nights' work -- and will not be home until the wee hours of the morning. And so, Herself is alone.
Without the motivation of adult companionship and conversation, Herself lacks the impetus to do much of anything. She looks at the carpet, but is unmotivated to plug in the vacuum and drag it throughout the house. She plays the piano for a bit. She tidies the pets and makes dinner for Offspring the Second and Third. She folds the laundry. She grumbles at the dishwasher, which did not release the soap properly in the last cycle, and resets it to try again. The tile could use some steam cleaning, she supposes - maybe tomorrow. Her elliptical trainer awaits; and it will continue to do so. The small dog has tucked herself into Herself's hoodie, and they recline on the couch together, feeling the cold of the evening settle upon them.
Funny how, when there is so much empty time, so little gets done.
Perhaps I will send Herself to bed. In the light of the early morning, all will seem just a bit brighter, and she will be able to get things done once more.
Poetry Thursday, courtesy of a friend
1 day ago