With his quilt chin-high on a Sunday night, by the light of his bedside lamp, my young son asks, “Was that the weekend?”
“Yes, it was,” I reply.
“But it didn’t feel like a weekend,” he says, employing his ‘rip-off ’ voice; the one reserved for bad trades in baseball and empty cereal boxes.
Aged 12, he poses this question many Sundays, thereby prompting a review of my own weekend which frequently looks something like this: hockey, work email, groceries, an ensuing onslaught of emails about the first email, homework help, hockey, dog-wrangling, family dinner, clean-up, laundry, work reading. To keep Sunday distinguishable from Saturday, I might top off the above with some light toilet cleaning. We do change it up in summer, however: the kids play soccer instead of…
