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Weekends are hard

Back when we both worked in the city (no, not of London or Jack Webb), sometime on Friday (or sometimes saturday or sunday when things got really hectic), J and I used to say to each other, "Happy weekend." It was time to down tools, get out of the office clothes and kick back with drinks and cats and whatever else.

This morning, by contrast, I got up at 3 to see to B, got back to bed about 5, and up at 715 to start the process of getting C out the door for breakfast and kindermusic. J got to bed a little after midnight and was up at 630 to see to B. We then had full-contact offspring (with only a few meltdowns) until a little before 8. Tonight I'll take the early shift, and J will take the late, and we'll do the same thing tomorrow. By nightfall both of us will be whispering "I'm so glad C goes to daycare on monday."

Yeah, I know we signed up for it and then some. But still, Happy effing weekend.

In other news, we may be making a terrible mistake, but we signed up in the waiting list for a prius at the local dealer. J wants red.

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