Come Monday morning, Weekend Recovery Mode kicks into high gear. Irrational, yes, that I try to avoid it's arrival by cowering in the computer corner, late this Sunday night. The neurosis can't be helped. After a long weekend, the temptation to bask in a little midnight solitude, a house lulled into slumber by all the people I love, well it's just too much. In the dim light of a computer screen, I can almost pretend that the momentarily non-visible surfaces aren't actually covered (completely) in the messy evidences of my life with children. Tornado never seems a strong enough description.
Surely, Mr. Forget-me-not, will forgive me, just this once, for wishing--just a wee little wish--that a baby blue apron donning, Hanz, and his perfect pink feather duster, will be at my doorstep tomorrow. I'll check the front porch right after I return from the morning carpool. A more shrewd housewife would have thought to ask for him as a belated birthday present, because, clearly I can't be expected to wait until Christmas. My needs, they are so simple.
Sincere and thoughtful in his concern, Mr. Forget-me-not picked up on the Monday morning foreboding, even pitching in to finish the last sink full of Sunday dishes. The gloom began to settle as I surveyed the weekend damage around our house, making a mental tally of how many hours of housework it'll take to whip this ship back into shape. Darn it, where did the kids hide that whip?
I tried (not very hard) to mask the depressed emotion, knowing my disdain for the ritualistic Monday morning mania would derail the happy train faster than anything else. Every party comes with a price. Unfortunately, this past weekend o'fun had a price tag attached to a bottle of Clorox. (Seriously, Wooly, tell me now, do we have another decade of missed target practice during Potty Time? I just need to know.)
The experts have their own pet theories, on why women aren't happier than they were 40 years ago, despite having more opportunities, greater education, more access to the political process, and better work options. Pet theories aside, bottom line, women spend more minutes a day than men doing what they would rather not do. Stay-at-home-Dads, you are respectfully excluded from my gross generalization; you have my respect and condolences.
Quite frankly, as a woman who spends a significant amount of time doing things I'd rather not, I can rattle off my list of dislikes pretty darn fast. At the top: Monday morning chores. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday aren't much better. Unless, of course, I had a helper named, Hanz. Then there
Pardon me, may I borrow that pink duster?
Here's to Monday. May yours include fewer toilet bowls than mine.
Always on the grow,
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