On Friday evening, when my husband walks in the door after work, my week is over. I punch out and the kids are his for the weekend. Sure, I still have to breast feed H, and I don’t ignore S when she asks for me to help get her boots on, but I am, for intents and purposes, off duty until Monday morning when hubby leaves for work. It is a glorious feeling, one in which I wish I could bask for a while. Instead, I fall asleep on the couch by 9:30, having barely watched an hour of DVRed TV from the week, having maybe had a sip or two of the glass of wine I’ve poured myself. 


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