During the work week in the winter, I’m usually home for the rest of the day by 3:30 p.m. I go to work, I pick my Beans up, we come home. J doesn’t get home until around 8:00 p.m., so it’s just the three of us for the bulk of the evening. Sometimes, the girls will fall asleep in the car and I’ll gingerly maneuver them from their car seat to their cribs for a little afternoon siesta. Then, I’ll come downstairs, gaze longingly at the couch, festooned with soft pillows and warm blankets, and make my way, grudgingly, to the basement for laundry.

When they awake, it’s playtime. The dogs are fair game and we’ve got Christmas music blaring in the background. The Beans have dinner, I start dinner for me and J and we wait (im)patiently for J to come home. The minute he does, I’m quickly forgotten and continue finishing dinner while the three of them commence the act wherein the Beans pretend like they haven’t seen him in twenty-three years (which is, of course, impossible, as they are only 15 months old) and are all, “Daddy!” and “Hi!” and “Whoa!” and he pretends like he’s a slide and he lays on the floor and they climb all over him.

By Saturday morning, I’ve got a list this long of things that I couldn’t accomplish during the week and I give him a choice: either stay home with the Beans and let me run my errands, or be my chauffer and maybe I’ll feed you. He almost always picks the second of the two. He’s never been one of those guys who hates to go to the mall. He has his breaking point, but he has no problem tagging along and catching a bite to eat afterward. It’s much more fun now, because he can show off the girls or take them to the toy store and “Wow!” along with them. The errands generally continue on to Sunday and by Sunday afternoon, J is signaling defeat, waving his white flag in surrender and curling up in a ball on the floor while the Beans pummel him with Elmo books triumphantly. Every Sunday evening, when the girls are put to bed, he collapses on the couch and mutters something incoherent that translates to mean that we’ve successfully worn him out.

This happens every week. I get cabin fever. I think the girls do too. They have to go out. Even if it’s just for a drive. A change of scenery is necessary for our sanity. We are never home on weekends.

So, when J had to work this past Sunday, I had a list of places running through my head that I wanted to get to. We kissed him good-bye after breakfast and I went upstairs to get ready. Only, I saw a book that had been sitting on my nightstand, unread for weeks because I can’t keep my eyes open past 11:00 p.m. anymore. And then I saw the four baskets of clean laundry waiting to be put away or hung up. And then I heard the girls laughing uproariously downstairs about something or other.

When I went downstairs, I found them chasing each other with stolen Christmas tree ornaments. I sat on the couch for a few minutes, enjoying the little show. Before I knew it, it was time for their nap, and time for my chores. And when they awoke, I was knee deep in laundry, still in PJs and glasses. When J got home, he asked if we got anything done. I was happy to report that we watched Cinderella, built a fort, colored several masterpieces, made banana bread from scratch and dressed Maximus up in Cookie Monster socks. We had just changed out of our jammies a half hour before he walked through the door. Sometimes it’s nice to just stay at home.