Not usually--I tend to enjoy Mondays, because I'm starting fresh after being spiritually "topped off." The cynicism that occasionally bogs me down doesn't normally hit until Tuesday. Mondays are filled with possibilities: maybe this week the kids will clean the cotton balls out of their ears and actually hear the sound of my voice. Perhaps this will be the week when everything on my to do list gets crossed off. There's a chance that I will have the energy at the end of the day to exercise, study the scriptures, and write in my journal. Tuesdays know better, but Mondays are optimistic.
Except for this Monday. This Monday was born a pessimist, and is rapidly developing misanthropic tendencies. It came into being when my husband announced that the dog had horribly violated the rug in the boys' room and that the baby had intuitively made his way to the steaming pile with that unerring instinct which babies have for finding the most inappropriate plaything in any given room. An emergency bath was administered. And then the rug had to be taken outside and washed--but first the porch had to be swept of all the accumulated sand from the party we threw Saturday, lest it add to the rapidly thickening crust on my feet from the floors, which had been mopped post-party, but which were mysteriously gritty and sticky again. Then I had to find a working hose, and the water sprayed all over my clothes, and the can I had carried the soapy water in cut up my fingers. I was bleeding, wet, cranky, and filthy, and it was only seven-thirty. Things were off to a rollicking start!
That was the high point of the morning. Let's just admit here, that any day in which I find the guest bathroom soap too filthy to healthfully touch is not a day when I will stick to my determination to speak with a soft and cheerful voice. Stupid goal, anyway. Anyone who never raises her voice has either perfect children or uncorrected myopia. (HA! Time is on my side for once! I started losing my sight five years ago--five more years and I will be cheerfully unaware of the mess around me. Blindness is the key to motherly serenity.)
Now I'm tired. Tired of hobbling around--did I mention that my ankle is either broken, sprained, or simply severely messed up, just to add to the fun?--putting things away that were conveniently left where I could find them with my tender toes. Tired of doing unplanned loads of laundry created by lazy bladders and exuberant strawberry eating. Tired of completing the jobs of people too distracted or disinterested to finish the jobs themselves. Tired of realizing that there are still twenty-three things to do today. Tired of warning my children that anything not put away by lunchtime will be donated to the Toys for Cross-eyed Orphans effort. Tired of being the only sane and responsible individual in a household of people who are willing to argue about the "sane" description. I'd crawl back into bed--but that's where I put the unfolded laundry, and I'm not up to a nap that strenuous yet.
My mommies-amidst-mayhem friends say that when days like this happen, the only thing one can do is breathe deeply (probably not a good idea because of the whole early-morning dog deposit issue), count slowly to forty-three, and recite a calming mantra. Okay. In the spirit of total exasperation and utter desperation, I will breathe, count, and recite:
There's hope, sisters. Cling to it until Tuesday comes.