mr. sandman, bring me a valium

Sometimes I hate the weekend, and I will tell you why: because it is followed by Monday morning. Ha, you say from your office chair. You’re a stay-home mom; what do you have to complain about on a Monday morning? And then I poke you in the eye.

No, but here’s how my morning has gone so far.

6:30 am: wake for the umpteenth time to nurse the baby (teething, remember? Sleep all fractured? Surely you could not forget) back to sleep. As soon as he drifts off, he clamps down hard. New teeth, as it turns out? Very sharp. Must pry miniature jaws off of boob while maintaining precious infant sleep.
6:45 am: Not So’s alarm goes off.
6:52 am: Not So’s snoozed alarm goes off.
6:59 am: Again.
7:06 am: This time I am just awake enough to think of coffee. Doing so makes me remember that the kitchen is a mess from dinner last night. This leads me to remember all the other things that did not get done over the weekend, i.e. anything housework-related, including (but not limited to) vacuuming, cleaning the bathrooms, taking out the garbage, doing the dishes and changing the diaper champ. Am consumed with dread. Also dreadful: the smell coming from the diaper area of my fitfully sleeping infant.
7:20am: Not So whisks him off to be changed. I gratefully snooze for approximately 3.5 seconds.
7:25 am: Baby’s awake. Not So leaves for work. I try in vain to convince Happy Fun Baby that sleep is a thing we should be doing. He grins toothily and eats my hair.
7:45 am: Fine. I’m up. My head feels like it is stuffed with cotton and I can’t quite feel my tongue, but I’m up. I fuzzily decide to move the mattress over to the corner where we’ve been talking about moving it for, oh, a month or so. This entails moving a bookshelf and cleaning up the pile of blank greeting cards (…don’t ask) and various desk-related swag that got dumped in the corner when we were emptying boxes. Oh, and apparently mattresses are not easy to move. You’d think, mattress, how hard can it be? I am here to tell you: it is hard. If I were smart, I would have waited until I had someone to help me. I am not smart. Also? I had not yet had any coffee.
8:15 am: Put yesterday’s wash in dryer. Decide that yes, I would like a bath, now that I’m all sweaty from moving the mattress.
8:20 am: Baby, who should by all rights be playing contentedly in his nursery, begins to scream. My reassurances (“I’m right here, Boo! It’s okay!”) are ignored. Hastily shave legs. Will have to wash hair later. Clean hair = highly overrated.
8:30 am: Downstairs. Kitchen is, in fact, a mess. Also a mess: everything else. I put Happy Fun Baby in the play yard (more screaming!) and clean living room, which involves getting all the crumbs off the futon, sweeping, and mopping. While the floor dries I empty the clean dishes out of the dishwasher and put dirty ones in. This clears a miniscule sliver of countertop and enables me to make some coffee and cereal.
9:25 am: Finally sit down to have some breakfast.

I had a job once where I had to keep track of my workday in a similar manner to the above (a ludicrous waste of everyone’s time, but that’s kiss-ass middle management for you) and I would just like to point out: I never had that much to do on a Monday morning. Or any other morning, for that matter.

I need a nap.

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5 thoughts on “mr. sandman, bring me a valium”

  1. Urggghhhhhhhh…those days are not so far behind me that it doesn’t hurt my head to remember them. And I never worked this hard when I had a job, either. And they actually paid me to not work this hard!

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  2. Proof that your day is busier than mine: I don’t know you, was just randomly browsing online because it’s such a slow day at the office. The fact that I can do this, and take time to write about your writing about it, seems rather cruel on my part. But you have my sympathies. Maybe you and Not So can go robotic on your floors (Roomba, Scooba) as a timesaver, or spring for a maid, or give up on it and burn the house down and collect the insurance. (Kidding.)

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