Just another manic Monday…

Why does Monday always come as such a surprise?

After all, it comes at exactly the same time each week.  After Sunday.  Before Tuesday.  We should be ready for it.  Shouldn’t we?

Yet every Monday morning me and millions of others are caught off guard.  Even if we think we’re on top of everything.

Firstly, Monday morning is deadly for sleeping in.  You’ve relaxed a bit over the weekend.  The body clock’s a little out of kilter.  And now the mornings are suddenly so much darker that you think it’s far earlier than it is.  But it isn’t.

The girls aren’t helping.  The drug effect of school has well and truly hit and all Beaver and Godivy want to do is sleep.  Naturally, it’s having a knock on effect because like most parents, we are not used to waking at ‘leisure.’  So we don’t.

I knew that those first few weeks eating porridge together by 7.45 AM wouldn’t last.  But I didn’t anticipate the demise to happen quite so soon.

So, Mondays are the day that Godivy goes to nursery in odd socks and Christmas hairclips and has take-out milk in the car.  Except Daddy Pig will usually leave her beaker on the stairs.  In the rush.  So she’ll end up with nothing.  Beaver will have just nine minutes to eat piping hot porridge.  Whilst I watch intently, praying she doesn’t do a ‘Goldilocks’ on me.

I will style Beaver’s hair with a fork, because I can’t find the comb.  Forks (in case you’re interested) are a surprisingly effective substitute for doing partings.  As long as it’s a blunt one.

We will then waste valuable seconds that we don’t have debating things like why Beaver cannot wear sunglasses to school.  Reasons aside from the obvious lack of sunlight, that is (I don’t think Beaver is going to be a meteorologist).

Finally, with my heart racing and my teeth gritted, we will eventually get out of the house.  But we won’t be in the clear YET.  I will have forgotten something.  Getting dressed (on a bad day) or my glasses (on a good day).  Then there is always the possiblity that Beaver has smuggled something out of the house.  Last Monday, it was Lion Cub.  Unfortunately for Beaver, Lion Cub purrs and growls at random intervals so is not the most discreet of toys to take to school.  But toys are strictly NOT allowed.  So back home we will go.  And more seconds gone.

Once at the train station, my oyster card will suggest I ‘seek assistance.’  Tell me something I don’t know, I’ll think.  And that will cement the joy that is Monday morning.  Standing in the long queue of people who didn’t think to top up their oyster cards before the Monday rush.  Fortunately for all of us, the train will be delayed, which is probably why we leave topping-up until Monday morning.  We know we’ll have time.

Mondays like these used to tip me over the edge.  But suddenly, not so much.

I’ve realised that I’m doing the best that I can.  It’s not ‘good enough’ by a long shot and it never will be.  But Godivy got to nursery.  Beaver got to school.  Daddy Pig and I got to work.  We all ended up where we were supposed to be.  Eventually.  So does it really matter how we get there?

Because whilst it would be nice to be serenely organised, with all the best intentions and all the minutes in the world, this is how family life works.  Dysfunctionally.  Inharmoniously.  Unpredictably.

And I think I might just be ok with that.  Underneath the hysteria, I can even see the funny side.  Once I’ve had a glass of wine.

So, like many before me, I have finally realised.  Resistance is futile.

Someone pass me the bottle.  Please.



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