Weak Ends

So, this weekend was going to be the big start of potty training. What I want to know is this?
Do they make size 8 diapers?

Weekends feel like obstacle courses built out of bramble, quicksand, wishes, kisses, deep sighs, and, this weekend in particular, poop.
Weekends feel like a test of my mettle.
Weekends feel like those old fashioned grocery store game shows when you had to fill your cart up with so much stuff you could barely push it and cross the finish line before the buzzer went off or you lost everything you worked so hard to get, which wasn't even such an amazing prize to begin with, but you wanted it nonetheless.
Weekends feel like a tease, the way Peaches calls sweetly to doggies to come over, and then when they get close she freaks out and screams, "No, Doggie, NO!"
Weekends sometimes feel like Christmas the year after you found out the truth about Santa Claus.
Weekends sometimes feel like an Ashton Kutcher special, and I've been punked.
Weekends feel like the second shift, the other day job.
Weekends feel like fresh air, but fresh air that sometimes turns in to a whirlwind.
Weekends feel like home ec on steroids.
Weekends feel like work, but work also feels like work.

To be honest, it was a pretty good weekend. As far as weekends go, anyway.