This is pretty much every Friday morning, every week. I sigh because of course he can have a play date, but really, I’m starting to enter that parenting zone of being a glorified chauffeur and event planner.
Years ago, my weekends revolved around sleeping in and shopping with my mother, sometimes cleaning my house or working in the yard. When Harry first arrived, weekends were just like the other days of naptimes and meals—but he was happy to just be with me.
Now? I’m old boring sauce. On Friday nights, I text friends to see who can play, praying somebody will have an open weekend. Because if he’s stuck with me all weekend? It’s just unacceptable. Apparently I’m not as fun to geo-cache with, and while I’m necessary for being pushed on the swings, he’d rather do it with a friend on the swing next to him.
So for the foreseeable future, I’m just my preschooler’s event planner and mode of transportation to fun.