I’ve been at my desk working since about 4:30. It’s 6pm now. I’ve gotten up a couple of times to let the dog out. And, I did get up and fix a plate for dinner (which I ate at my desk, working) and I scooped some ice cream for myself and Elly (which I ate at my desk, working.)
As soon as I finish writing this post, I’ll start a load of laundry and I’ll clean the kitchen. After that… do I come back here to my desk and work some more? Or do I call it done for the weekend?
It’s never a matter of will I work or won’t I work, on my days off. It’s a matter of how much I’ll work.
If I don’t get a jumpstart on the week, or catch up on what fell through the cracks last week, I’ll be so far behind that I’ll never catch up. Or, more likely I’ll catch up by working 16 hour days until it’s done. I love my job but I kind of hate 16 hour work days.
I don’t particularly love spending six hours on a Sunday night at my desk, either.
There are books to read and Firemom watched Dawson’s Creek in front of the Christmas tree today, which sounded like a ton of fun to me. There are movies I haven’t seen that I could be watching. There’s a puppy who’d love me to throw a toy for her for awhile. There are teenagers I could harass, because they so love it when I harass them. I could call my big kids. I could play with my iPad. I could re-organize the cabinets and the stockpile room. I could wrap the last two packages for JMP and his parents and get their boxes packed (and the Fake Husband’s box packed.) There are so many things I could do.
But I won’t.
I’m going to come right back here and barrel through. The work calls and if I don’t answer, I’ll be here tomorrow night until 9pm playing catch up and kicking myself for not getting it done.