I love a three-day weekend, if only because I have a 50-50 chance of winning the “Who gets to sleep in on the third day?” coin toss my husband and I have the Friday before the weekend begins.

See, I look forward to long weekends for the opportunities to relax: a longer morning lay in, the cessation of most household chores, a break from home schooling my son. Oh, and the food: what’s a Labor Day weekend without grilled burgers and chicken, tossed salads, fresh-baked pie and slices of watermelon?

My husband, on the other hand, sees long weekends as an opportunity to do stuff — most of which involves catching up on things he made excuses for not accomplishing during the week. Telling me that he really wanted to get on top of his end-of-summer chores, he spent yesterday mowing the yard, putting down fall lawn treatment, pulling weeds, trimming tree branches, and sweeping the garage.

Today, though, he wants to do something fun — maybe even go boating. Which would be fine, except that he wants me to make a pack lunch, find everyone’s swimsuits and life jackets, pack a day bag with all of the stuff we could possibly need, gather our fishing gear, renew our fishing licenses and run to pick up some bait.

Then we can all jump in the car and drive to join some friends for a fun day of boating, after which I’ll get to unpack the picnic basket, wash all of the bathing suits, hang the life jackets up to dry in the storage room, put away the sunscreen and First Aid stuff from the day bag, stow the fishing gear and file our fishing licenses.

That. Is. Not. Happening.

It’s “Labor Day” and, since there’s still no such thing as a Mommy Labor Union, I’m on strike.