Monday, April 27, 2015

It's my Monday and I'll cry if I want to

I hate Mondays.

Really, I do.  Everyone leaves me on Monday and the house is so quiet and the toys are so neat and orderly and my only conversation comes from a two-year-old who might be saying "I love you," but is probably saying "I went poo" and I will never know the difference.  Until he comes closer, that is.

On Mondays all of the fighting that plagued me throughout the weekend is glaringly absent and the house suddenly seems too big and too empty.  On Mondays Benjamin does and says cute things, but there's no one to share it with, and I'm reminded of trees falling in a forest with no one to hear.  I try to remember these cute happenings, for dinnertime conversation, but my mind doesn't hold new information for more than a half hour these days.  And there are a lot of half hours before the end of a Monday.

Beautiful Mondays help a bit.  Warm breezes and sunshine make them slightly more bearable.  Also coffee with friends.  But eventually we have to leave.  Usually because our toddlers are beelining for the door and begging to go home.  They don't seem to understand that Mondays are much too depressing to face alone.

On Mondays nap time is non-negotiable.  I will drive in circles if I have to.  But on Mondays, Benjamin must nap.  So I place him gently in bed and tiptoe down the stairs, and then I remember that the only thing worse than having a toddler running around your house on Monday is not having a toddler running around your house on Monday.

And so on Mondays I eat lunch alone, surrounded by four empty chairs.  And although I daydreamed of this moment all weekend, my food never tastes as good when I don't have to get up for drinks and seconds and the right color forks before I even take a bite.

The laundry is piled extra high on Mondays.  But also, on Mondays, laundry is much too sad an activity.  General tidying is all I can muster, and I'm lucky to get that far.

Somehow it is also sad when the toddler wakes up on a Monday.  A general unease hangs over the rest of our day, and it doesn't lift until the school is in sight.  Until we swing open those heavy, glass doors and watch as messy lines of children skip before us.  Until the quiet of our day is filled with excited chatter and warm hugs and immediate requests for snacks.

And by the time we pull in the driveway I am pulling out my hair while the boys literally pull out each other's hair and I'm barely able to make dinner with all of the kids needing all of the things.  And somehow it's all right.

And even though Monday's not technically over, I know it's over.  Because I might be starting to hyperventilate, but I'm also finally able to breathe.

Empty houses are sad.

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