The Case of The Disappearing Weekend

In my last column, I discussed the pressure and intensity of youth sports, but I didn’t get to touch on the weekend aspect. So now, here is my ode to the weekend. A farewell to arms, if you will. 

The meaning of weekends has changed exponentially in the last few years. Weekends used to mean rest. Or, at the very least, a chance of pace. Now? They’re just weekdays in disguise, except with more uniforms, shin guards, and frantic last-minute searches for water bottles. 

With three kids in sports, the weekend is less a break and more a logistical relay race. Saturday mornings start with someone’s soccer game, then another kid’s football scrimmage, and somewhere in there, I’m sprinting across town, silently praying I remembered the right jersey. By Sunday afternoon, I’m not sure if I’ve spectated, chauffeured, or simply lived inside my car. All three, honestly. 

It’s gotten to the point where when we do have an off-season weekend, I don’t even know what to do with it. I’ll stare at the wide-open Saturday like it’s an alien landscape – wondering what my life is if I’m not forcefully throwing coolers and camping chairs and sports gear into the back of my car. 

As we bear witness to the death of the weekend, in this column, I would be remiss if I didn’t bring up one of the 1,000 cuts causing its demise – snacks.

Back in my day (yes, I said it), halftime orange slices were manna from heaven. If you scored a chewy chocolate cup granola bar after the game, you knew the wealthy family had snack duty that week. That was the pinnacle. Now, snacks have turned into curated gift bags: individual packages, themed stickers tucked inside, maybe even a note. Personally, I find it wasteful because most kids prefer picking their own anyway. I blame COVID for the rise of the individually sealed, pre-bagged model, but thankfully, I’ve seen some return to the glorious free-for-all, so watch this space. 

And even though things are relaxing on the snack front, the stress of it all – the packing, the remembering, the showing up on time – it adds up.

Of course, the kicker is that my kids thrive in this environment. They beam when they core. They glow when they get a “great game” or simply have fun with their friends. They don’t see the chaos behind the curtain. They just see their teammates, their progress, and their joy. 

And honestly, it’s not year-round and, if I’m really being vulnerable and honest here, it’s by my own design. I signed them up, filled out the forms, paid the fees, volunteered for the snack schedule. 

But isn’t that the paradox of parenting? Half the time, we’re venting about the very lives we’ve chosen. We willingly step onto the hamster wheel, then complain about how fast it’s spinning. 

So yes, my weekends have disappeared into the black hole of youth sports, and I bid them a mournful farewell. With arms open, I embrace the cleats, the whistles … the endless sideline small talk. But when I see my kids running across the fields, flushed and joyful, I remember: if this is what the weekend has become, then maybe it’s not lost after all.