I think when everybody got together and invented “Monday” they gave it all the bad jobs, sort of like the shower hostess who was last to respond to the mass-planning e-mail. And with the bad jobs of Monday — early rising, laundry, early rising and laundry — the bad Monday juju just can’t help but make the bad Monday jobs durn near impossible. You’ll remember the last time I blogged about Monday, with the fire trucks and Nile River of bodily excretions. It’s a cursed day. (The name Monday, incidentally, derives from the Old English word for “moon day.” I don’t know if that bears any significance, only that’s pretty well documented that crazy stuff happens on full moons. Like the birth of Thing Two, for instance.)
I woke up Monday to Drew knocking a giant steaming mug of coffee off my bedside table and onto the floor, which then stained my dupioni silk bedskirt and fitted sheet. I HATE changing the fitted sheet, mostly because I hate unfolding something that took such effort to fold in the first place. Plus I require the equivalent of trailer tow hitch to tug my fitted sheet over all four mattress corners, which is great for achieving toned biceps and shoulders but impossible to achieve without coffee. You see my dilemma. Yes, it is another Mondayism, the fitted sheet. When I went to change the fitted sheet, I discovered the maids had washed and dried the replacement fitted sheet together with Drew’s dark blue sheets, dying my cream-colored, 600-thread count ones a sickly pale blue. Not to mention, the mug that had fallen was broken and it was Gordon’s favorite, a souvenir from a trip he took as a kid. He grumbled something about me restoring it to its former glory with super glue sometime later that day. If I couldn't manage to cure cancer first. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s being assigned an Arts and Crafts project that doesn’t involve art and requires no craft. Plus, super glue and I have a seedy past, mostly because I’m at odds with anything that contributes to the jankety-ness of the world. I can handle only so much po-dunk around here, and super glue is the arbiter of ghetto-rigged jankety po-dunk.
Drew screamed when Gordon whisked him up and into Time Out from the coffee mug infraction. I sat up, still half asleep. Hello Monday my old friend.
Monday was but a quivering little rosebud about to open when it became clear Thing Two had acquired her first cold. That dainty little nose sounded like a rubber whoopee cushion filled with water. Like all respectable viruses, this one made sure all her naps were disrupted, all her feedings unproductive, and all her waking moments fitful. I pity womankind before Infant Tylenol. Really. I don’t know how you lived. Too bad I didn’t think to administer it until 4:15 p.m.
This was also the day Drew decided he had suddenly lost all respect for the institution of Common Decency and became the whiniest whiner who ever whined a big fat whine. I don’t care if he stutters, can’t say his “R’s” and has the most melt-in-your-heart brown eyes — he was not cute on Monday. When Madeline woke up cranky from a nap and I had to cut the tricycle riding short, Drew screamed like a prepubescent banshee until I sent him to his room. He fell asleep in there on the floor right before lunch, which disrupted his nap. Which made him even more unspeakable at dinnertime. Ah, Monday. Monday, Monday.
So basically, Madeline spent the whole day in her swing, Drew spent the whole day in Time Out, and I spent the whole day wondering how people steal identities.
Not to mention a few Monday freebees I didn’t count on: finding out a dear friend’s parents are divorcing after 35 years of marriage — which sat in my gut all day like a big rubber medicine ball and didn’t let me go anywhere without effort — and then, just to knock me over with a feather, I found out they changed CPR. Again. I just can’t stay ahead of anything anymore.
(Yeesh, just re-reading this post makes me want to ingest some dark chocolate. Dark chocolate dipped in melted chocolate chocolates inside a chocolate enigma.)
So in the spirit of Christmas — what, it’s not even Halloween yet? You could have fooled me — I thought I would stop being a scrooge about it all and count the many blessings that Monday brought along the way. Which is really more in the spirit of Thanksgiving. (What, it’s not even Halloween yet?)
Here they are:
1. That even on Monday, coffee exists. Even if it can be spilt upon fitted sheets and scald. But there are lawsuits for that, which provide some comfort.
2. I was able to have maids come last week, even if they did combine lights and darks. Maids.
5. That what caused the coffee crash was Drew coming to greet me in the morning — that there exists a little boy who wants to greet me because I am his mother. And the fact he just happens to be clumsy like me is a teensy bit endearing.
6. At least Thing Two’s nose isn’t so big I wouldn’t notice if it had extra mucous. She could resemble Gonzo, lurid thought, but she doesn’t.
7. Oh yea, and she could have Ebola too. But she doesn’t. Just a domesticated little cold virus just looking for a home in this cold, cruel world. (Emphasis on COLD.) A virus that gets up on Monday mornings like everybody else just looking for its cup of joe and tries to stay under the radar.
8. I think I mentioned the Infant Tylenol.
9. That I thought of the metaphor “prepubescent banshee.”
10. That I spelled “prepubescent” correctly on my first try. There, I did it again, hot diggity.
And that’s just for starters. What are you grateful for about Monday?
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