Saturday nights are precious. The one night in the week when I can do as I please. Stay up till sunrise if I so choose. Without remorse or prospects of dire consequence. A night I look forward to, from Sunday morning and thereafter. The anticipation of which colors my day bright. The excited expectancy gathers by Friday night and builds to a cresendo by Saturday evening.
Once The Little One is safely tucked in, I am free to indulge in whatever mores, wonts, whims and desires that I wish to. I can curl up in bed with the warm, comforting glow of my iPad. Or lounge in a squishy armchair with a book in hand, lost. I may slurp rich, creamy hot chocolate or sneak in a late night Earl Grey while drifting aimlessly through the quagmire of satellite television. I can blog through the night if I want to. The Mister and I can gossip, reminisce, plan, or bicker away till dawn. I can put in extra- work into my papers or catch up on the latest literature and techniques. I could even do something as mundane but vital as folding the piled up laundry or cleaning out my closet.
The possibilities are endless, and the wishes too many. The mind whirs with anticipation but the body is consumed with exhaustion. Hence, what transpires on Saturday nights is often miles away from what is envisioned.