You know what's wrong with weekdays? It isn't that we have to go to school and work. I don't mind that. (Much.) It's that when we get home, the entire evening is consumed with the task of preparing to do it all again the next day. After a while, home starts to feel less like a place to relax and enjoy life, and more like a refueling station where we plug ourselves in to power up during the off cycle. Don't bother me, I'm in sleep mode now. Come back at 0700 hours when the indicator light is green.
It wasn't always like this, you know. P and I used do all sorts of things on weekday evenings -- play with G, take her to the park if it wasn't dark yet, wander around the mall, sometimes even (gasp!) see a movie. We could do this because while I was at work, he took care of all the cleaning and laundry and homework and kid bathing, so when I got home, all that was left to do was make dinner and get G ready for bed. The hours in between were gloriously free to do whatever seemed like the most fun. Now those hours are when I try to accomplish everything that P did over the course of an entire day, plus prod G through whatever she's supposed to be doing, and it isn't even slightly fun for either of us.
I'd love to recapture just a bit of what our evenings were like when P was alive, but then there's a lot I'd love to recapture from when P was alive. I miss some of the tiniest, most ridiculous things, like walking around together to close all the blinds and lock the doors before bed, or telling him that no, you do not need to buy two kinds of soda, three kinds of juice, and four different flavors of Gatorade at the grocery store. (Gatorade tastes like sweat to me, but P loved it.) I guarantee that my weekdays, and all my other days too, would be better if he were here.