Fun. Relatively Speaking.

A certain someone in my house is of the belief that “fun” escapes me.

A certain someone is of this belief because I’ve always told this certain someone to “work first, play later.”

A certain someone seems to have misunderstood that to mean work when you’re young, play when you’re old.

When in reality, what I meant is work {every day} until work is through and play with the time you’ve got left over {most likely dusk to sundown.  Ish}.

Work every day.  Play every day.

Whether that is a popular belief or not, I can’t say.  But it works for me.

A certain someone witnesses my days at home–witnesses the suds and the soiled behinds and the lunch-making–and that certain someone sees boredom.  Redundancy.  Hopelessness.

Whereas I?  I look at the splay of domesticity and I see the stuff that dreams are made of.

It’s not that I don’t tire of the soiled behinds and the call from the bathroom: “Mom, I’m dooooooooooone.”  I actually tire of that part rather quickly thankyouverymuch.

But whereas a certain someone dreams of coming and going at will and spending every. single. night. out on the town?  I don’t share that definition of fun.  At least not anymore.  Not in my old age.

Truth be told, I’m quite the homebody.  Nights on the town are overrated, if you ask me.

My idea of fun is a Friday night, spent making dinner in the kitchen while Disney tunes roll out, one after another, from my annoyingly cheerful playlist.  Pollyanna.

The pull of the people here at home isn’t a burden, but a blessing–they root me.

I love being needed.  And I need to be loved.

My certain someone has yet to become a parent.

I wonder if my certain someone ever will.  And if so, how that perspective might change.

Months ago, I read a blog post in which the author said something to the effect of, “it’s so refreshing to see young parents who didn’t let the birth of their child change their lives.”

A photo accompanied the post, and in it, this young couple was pictured with their brand new baby.  The backdrop?  A neon beer sign, typical of those found in bars across America.  Their newborn baby sat between them, in a car-seat carrier.  In a bar.

In a bar!

Refreshing to see young parents who don’t let the birth of their child change their lives?  Refreshing to see young parents who don’t let the birth of their child impose on their fun?

Eh.  I’m not so sure about that.

I’m not nearly as “fun” as I once was.

And I hope that one day, in the not-too-distant future, a certain someone will appreciate my idea of fun as much as I understand hers.