“Today is Freedom Friday,” my sweetie-niece informed me last week. We are lazing around by the hammock while my sister busily deadheads flowers in the garden.
“Wow! What’s Freedom Friday?”
“Well,” she explained. “Friday is my favorite day of the week. And I think you should have one day where you get to do whatever you want. It’s Freedom Friday. Invented!” she shouted, small fist punching the air. Muttering under her breath and beginning to look a little heated, I caught a quick eye roll from her mother, still working hard on the garden.
“I think it’s an amazing invention. What are you going to do for Freedom Friday?”
“Go to the pool! It’s a great day to go swimming,” she cooed, looking sideways at her mom.
“Well,” said my sister, viciously snapping at stems, “if it’s Freedom Friday, and we get to do whatever ‘we’ want to do, then maybe I don’t want to go to the pool.”
Freedom Friday. Keeping oppressed nine year-olds home from the pool on a weekly basis.