I’m at work today, I work on Saturdays at a doctor’s office, answering the phones for urgent care. I have been working here for the past six months, but have reluctantly (on some levels, anyway) given my notice. It’s just too hard on everyone else for me to be gone all day on Saturdays. Marc’s home with all four of the kids, sometimes five, if we have Glennys. And Sammy is still so little. Even though he’s a year and a half tomorrow, I still feel like he’s such a baby – and he’s so reliant on me. When it’s time for a nap, he nurses to sleep. Without me there, when it’s time for a nap, he just starts screaming and goes until he passes out from exhaustion. Which sucks for everyone, Sam included. So I understand why I needed to quit, and am even looking forward to being at home full time again. But there’s a part of me that’s bumming – I loved working. Saturdays were my days off. I loved being a grown up, leaving my hair down instead of pulled into a sloppy bun, wearing mascara and lip gloss, talking to other adults, not having to break up fights or get drinks or do the dishes, etc.
But, onward and upward, I guess. Marc got a second job instead -he’ll be working four nights a week at the YMCA, but on the upside, he was never home during the week anyway and we get a free membership, which is great. And we’ll have the weekends together to hang out as a family. It does mean that I’m home by myself with the kids for the majority of the week, Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday nights.
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