My three-year-old, Oliver, just started preschool, and a week ago—yes, just a week ago—we had the privilege of being the first family to bring home The Weekend Chronicles. This delightful package includes a basket, a plush toy, and a black-and-white notebook meant for chronicling our weekend adventures. It’s a charming concept, and I fondly recall enjoying it with my older child, but life was a lot simpler seven years back. When Oliver’s teacher handed me the notebook this time, I felt dizzy, like I was caught in a cartoon whirlwind. I definitely didn’t need another task added to my already overflowing to-do list. Thankfully, Oliver’s teacher, who knows me too well, noticed my overwhelmed expression and assured me I could keep the book longer than just the weekend since we didn’t have school on Friday. Fast forward ten days, and I finally sat down to tackle The Weekend Chronicles. Talk about procrastination! At least I’m consistently behind.
I had snapped pictures capturing all the joyful moments from our past two weekends, cut them out, and carefully glued them into the notebook, adding cute anecdotes about our outings and the fun times we shared. The Weekend Chronicles feels like a real-life Facebook—everyone ooohing and aaahing, sharing how adorable their kids are, and rallying around the “like” button as if we’re all living our best lives. It creates a façade of the perfect family—one where babies never cry, toddlers don’t throw toys at each other, and no one ever begs for candy at the crack of dawn. A magical world where messy faces and “he hit me” arguments don’t exist.
This got me pondering: What if I were to be honest in The Weekend Chronicles? Sure, there were enjoyable moments—my smiley photos are proof—but what if I included the hilarious (and often chaotic) realness of our life? Here’s the unfiltered truth:
The week we had The Weekend Chronicles was quite the adventure. On Friday, I prepared a lovely dinner that no one touched, primarily because Oliver was convinced there were onions in the dish—spoiler alert: there weren’t. After dinner, I found myself cursing under my breath while washing the dishes, lamenting about our rickety dishwasher, while my husband, Dave, attempted to bathe the kids without incident. Spoiler: there were incidents. Including a memorable moment when the older boys insisted on peeing in the toilet simultaneously, leading to more cleanup for me. Oh what joy!
After dessert, the kids engaged in a fierce battle for dominance on the couch. No one emerged victorious, and bedtime was pushed up by an entire fifteen minutes as a result. Saturday was consumed by soccer games, and I was a complete mess trying to gather uniforms, water bottles, and socks. Honestly, I probably need to consult a mental health professional for my inability to focus.
Saturday evening brought another gourmet dinner that nobody looked at, thanks to Oliver’s wild imagination convincing him he saw blood in a fully cooked chicken thigh. I ended the night with a glass of wine, pretending for a moment that I was child-free.
On Sunday, we embarked on an anxiety-inducing walk to the farmers’ market, where Oliver’s fearless scooter riding had my heart racing. I bought two pounds of shrimp for dinner, which I knew would go untouched because that’s just how we roll.
Despite the chaos, I’m grateful for the incredible teachers my kids have. I managed to fill out The Weekend Chronicles because, amidst the madness, there were indeed good times (and I have the pictures to prove it). Those poor teachers don’t need to know about the wild antics that occur at home.
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Summary:
In this candid recounting of a weekend filled with typical parenting chaos, Linda Thompson reflects on the contrast between the idealized family moments captured in The Weekend Chronicles and the humorous realities of her life with her three-year-old, Oliver, and the rest of her family. Despite the challenges, she finds joy in the little moments and expresses gratitude for her children’s teachers.