As a mother of a spirited three-year-old, I recently found myself in possession of “The Weekend Book” from preschool. For those unfamiliar, this charming little package includes a basket, a stuffed animal, and a black-and-white composition notebook. The idea is to document your family’s weekend escapades. It’s a wonderful concept, and I fondly recall the joy it brought when I did this with my older child. However, juggling life today feels infinitely more complicated than it did seven years ago.
When Miss Caroline handed me The Weekend Book, I felt overwhelmed—like a cartoon character seeing stars and spirals. Really, did I need another obligation on my already packed list? Luckily, she must have sensed my panic and offered an extension since we didn’t have school that Friday. Fast forward ten days, and I finally sat down to tackle this task. Talk about procrastination!
With a determination to capture our weekend highlights, I gathered all the cheerful photos from the past two weekends, carefully glued them into the book, and penned charming anecdotes about our adventures. The Weekend Book is like a real-life social media feed where everyone oohs and ahhs over adorable moments, and you can’t help but think, “Wow, my family is perfect.” It’s a fantasy of the perfect family—where babies never cry, toddlers never hurl toys, and no one requests candy at dawn.
But then, it struck me: Why not be honest in The Weekend Book? Sure, we had our share of smiles, but what if I included the not-so-pretty moments too? Thus, I present to you…The REAL Weekend Book.
This week, we were in over our heads. Our Friday dinner was a culinary masterpiece that nobody touched, thanks to my three-year-old’s unfounded belief that there were onions in it (spoiler: there weren’t). After dinner, I scrubbed the dishes while muttering about our ancient dishwasher, as my partner wrestled with the kids during bath time. Let’s just say there were “incidents.” Like when my oldest boys decided to both use the toilet simultaneously—more mess for me to clean up, and trust me, I’m not a fan of that.
Later, post-dessert chaos erupted as the kids battled for the best spot on the couch. No one emerged victorious, and bedtime got pushed back by 15 minutes—classic. Saturday was a whirlwind of soccer chaos, with me frantically searching for uniforms, water bottles, and socks. My focus was so scattered that I might as well have been juggling flaming torches.
Then came another gourmet dinner on Saturday night—again, untouched. My youngest was convinced he spotted blood in our fully cooked chicken thigh. In the end, I poured myself a glass of wine and pretended I was childless for a brief moment of peace.
Sunday was another adventure, filled with anxiety as we walked to the farmers’ market. My fearless three-year-old zoomed around on his scooter, leaving me in a constant state of terror. I bought two pounds of shrimp for dinner, fully aware that it would likely go uneaten, as is our family’s tradition.
Despite the craziness, I truly appreciate my children’s teachers. I filled out The Weekend Book because, yes, there were good moments (the photos don’t lie), and I can only imagine how much they already deal with my little rascals at school. They definitely don’t need to hear about our home shenanigans.
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In summary, while The Weekend Book can be a charming tool for documenting family life, it can also be a canvas for the messy, chaotic, and real moments that make parenting such an adventure.
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