It's late on a Sunday night. Joan and I are lying in bed having one of those repetitive arguments we've had for ten years. You know the kind I mean-where you could push a button on a tape recorder and play "Unresolved Issue Number 213," and neither of you have to say another word. The roles are predictable, the responses pat, the pain terribly familiar.
      It's our core argument about time and space; doing and planning vs. being. I am, and always have been the doer. I like to go places, invite people for dinner, and socialize. I make play dates for the kids. Having friends and being part of a community are very important to me. I work alone all week and that has only exacerbated my natural inclinations.
      Joan, on the other hand, works with hundreds of teenagers every day. She is by nature more contemplative, drawn to hanging out, puttering in the garden, and seeing what happens in the moment. Over the years, I have slowly moved toward her way of life, and have grown to appreciate unstructured time, but my way of being still predominates. It's much easier to fill empty places with plans than it is to do nothing. And now that we have children, with their own rhythms and needs, the equation has grown even more complex.
      This past weekend is a case in point. Friday night was Justin's school play. He was high as a kite when it was over, skipping down the street singing. We had a party for him afterwards, sharing apple pie and ice cream with our family and a couple of friends. We got home late and fell into the bed. Saturday was a free day. The kids hung out in their pajamas, built forts, played fantasy games and moseyed through the day. At five, I took Justin to a sleepover at his friend Ricky's house. Ricky had called the day before and Justin, after some initial hesitation, said he wanted to go.
      The next day, however, Justin had a birthday party-a trip out on a boat followed by a barbecue at the beach. I knew that might be pushing it, so I picked him up in the morning and brought him home so he and Emily could play for awhile before he had to go out again. When it was time to leave, Justin didn't want to. I said we needed to go; that Seth was his oldest friend and that only a few kids had been invited out on this special boat ride. So he put on his shoes and off we went.
      As soon as we got to the harbor, Justin hooked up with another boy, also a guest at the party and they started to play. The two boys were inseparable and happy the rest of the day. They roamed the boat, swam in the ocean, built sandcastles and explored the beach. They barely took the time to eat, have cake and watch presents get opened. At eight that night, Justin was breaded with sand, having a blast, and I had to coax him to leave. When we got home, I popped him and his little sister in the bath. They relaxed there for forty-five minutes, got pajamas on, I read to them a chapter of Oz, and they went to sleep.
      Later that night, Joan and I had our talk about plans. She talked about her need to center after a week of work. Then she asked about Justin's weekend. I said he'd been reluctant to go to the party, but that he had a great time once he went. She said, "Kids do that, they adjust to what's in front of them, but I'm worried that if he keeps moving at your pace, he'll lose touch with his own rhythm."

      This morning, on the way to school, I decide to check this out with Justin. "How was this weekend for you?" I ask.
      Justin's sitting next to me, playing with a tiny plastic pinball machine Ricky loaned him. Ninety percent of his energy is focused on releasing the knob and watching the little balls fly. "It was too much," he finally replies.
      "Sleeping at Ricky's and going to the party was too much?"
      "Yeah!"
      "Can you tell me why? Did you not have enough time to get grounded?" I want to give him language to name his experience.
      "I didn't get enough rest," Justin explains.
      "So even though you had fun doing both things, together, they were too much!"
      "Yes!" Then he adds, "Don't ever ask me if I want to do things two or three days in a row. It makes my snuggy tank rust."
      "Because you spend all your time with other people and not enough with your family?
      "Yeah."
      We're both are quiet for a moment. The only sound is the ping, ping, ping of the pinball game as we sail down the freeway. Finally, I break in and ask, "Justin what would an ideal weekend be like for you?"
      Justin answers right away. "One-and-a-half days at home and half a day with a friend."
      "One day at home and one day with a friend?"
      "Half a day," Justin repeats, emphatic.
      "What about sleepovers?"
      "Only on vacations."
      "What if there's a grown-up thing? Like if I plan to have dinner with Mindy, and I bring you kids along to play with Phoebe and Miles?"
      "If I've already played with a friend, I won't go."
      "But Justin, I can't go without you. I'm usually the one taking care of you."
      "Well I won't go."
      I have a sinking feeling inside, the same feeling I feel whenever Joan and I have these conversations. I feel hemmed in, like something essential is being taken away. In my mind I'm calculating exactly how deprived I'm going to feel.
      We reach Justin's school. I pull up in the red zone. Justin's has one more thing he wants to tell me. "Mama," he says, matter-of-factly, "I feel like you plan way too much. I can't handle it."
      I feel like the wind's been knocked out of me. It's one thing for Joan to say it, but Justin? For a long time now, I've stretched to do less and to hang out more. But clearly, for at least two members of my family, the changes I've made haven't been nearly enough. But the prospect of making our lives even simpler or not getting to see my friends scares me. "Justin," I say, "I don't know if that's going to work for me. I work alone all week. When the weekend comes around, I really need to be with people…"
      He cuts me off, as if what he's about to say if completely self-evident. "What's wrong with just being with your family."
      This stops me dead in my tracks. I have nothing to say to him, but I want to cry. Justin senses this and gives me a longer than usual hug. Then he picks up his lunchbox and waves goodbye. Parked in the red zone, the sounds of cars and voices swirling around me, I stare out at the banner announcing the annual school auction, and wonder if I'll be able to give my son what he's asked for.