By the middle of this Saturday morning, I’d already written one thing for work, sent a couple of pitches to one editor and had begun working on this post.

This was not unusual. What may be odd is that I don’t mind doing work-like things on the weekend.

At one level, I have no choice about it. That part of work-life balance began eroding years ago; first not reading work e-mail became unwise, then not replying to at least some messages got to be too risky. The arrival of RSS and Twitter further escalated my occupational Internet use on weekends.

And as a work-from-home freelancer I’m rarely entirely off the clock but also have the liberty to shift my work hours around–which in practice often leaves tasks like, say, writing a post a week here that’s not completely self-promotional undone until Saturday. That should further blur the distinction between workdays and weekends.

But another level, Saturday and Sunday remain the days when work is something I do between other things, the alarm isn’t set unless there’s some special event, I feel zero guilt about throwing on an old pair of jeans and a t-shift, and it’s fine if I spend a few afternoon hours biking or gardening. Let’s try to keep those distinctions around, okay?

(There’s one other thing that can make weekends feel like workdays: parenthood. As much as we love spending time with our adorkable toddler, the advent of Monday morning doesn’t seem so bad when it means professional help with child care will once again resume.)