Mondays are evil. I agree with Garfield that Mondays should be outlawed. Sunday gets all used up making preparations for the impending Monday. Monday EATS half the weekend. Only Garfield could top that kind of gluttony.
This Monday began with thunderstorms in the middle of the night.Now as the Soup King would be happy to testify, I could sleep through the Apocalypse, so a little thunderstorm doesn’t bother me. The same cannot be said for everyone else in the house. Millie feels the need to wake me to let me know it’s thundering, because she’s decided it’s her sworn duty to inform me of everything (if the cat walks into the room, if the dogs are getting more attention than she is, if the children are going out or in, or the sun came up…I think she’s missed her true calling as a dog news reporter.).
Just as I pass out again, the thunder booms, waking Soup King (who might cause an Apocalypse, but definitely wouldn’t sleep through one). He jumps out of bed which spurs me to wake enough neurons to figure out what he’s doing. He shuts off the computer, which means my phone is not well charged come morning. (My wall charger ceased functioning. I bought another one and that too ceased to function.)
Marble, who will frolic with delight in snow, must be shoved bodily out the door if even a tiny drizzle wets her fur. Zeke is rather annoyed with the cooler mornings and also loathes rain, so this morning was an exercise in wrestling two dogs out the door while Millie barks for me to hurry up and let her out the front. (I’ve tried sending her out with the others, but Zeke takes that as the go ahead for an all out rough and tumble, rollicking romp and tries to jump all over her. All she wants to do is take care of business and come back in. Thus, the segregated potty arrangements.)
That done, I proceed to wake children, and the usual morning chaos ensues. Miss Drama complains of a stomach ache, but she does that every other day anyway, partly because she eats things with gluten outside of the house that she’s not supposed to eat. So, she got bundled off to school with her brother and sister. The heavy rain made for a stressful drive, as people here feel the need to brake suddenly or decide that they should attempt to change lanes regardless of the fact I’m in the space they want to occupy. My car attempts feats only a certain historical religious figure can claim success with, and my self-censored complaints end up making me sound like a pirate:
I praise the heavens that there’s a long line of other parents that are late due to the insane drivers and heavy rains, drop off the kids and head to school, noticing that my phone battery is hovering around a quarter ’til dead. Unfortunately, when my battery gets low, my phone tends not to work properly. Calls get dumped straight into voicemail and I have no idea anyone attempted to call until Sprint decides to share that information, which is not always instantaneous.
I get to school, park, get my things together and head off for my cross-campus trek. I get a tiny handful of things done before I notice I have a voicemail.
Miss Drama puked at school and has a low-grade fever.
So, morning is ruined as I hike back to car, email boss, and pick up my germ infested youngest child. I go ahead and do the grocery shopping I didn’t get done over the weekend and then work at home for a couple hours before leaving Miss Drama with Soup King to go back to school and attend an action-packed, edge-of-seat seminar (all sarcastic hyperbole intended), which of course runs over time. I have just enough time to split cells before picking up the non-infested siblings.
During dinner, conversation wanders to my discipline techniques. Miss Diva’s idea of “joke” still eludes me, as she claims that saying I beat them all the time is a joke. She attempted to correlate it with chickens crossing the road, but her logic only served to torture my brain cells.
My dearest son came to my defense,”Nu-uh. The only thing Mom beats us with is being weird.”