5.08.2006

Monday, Monday

If I were a drinking woman, I'd swear I have a hangover. I don't know what one feels like, even, but I can imagine. I can also imagine what it might feel like to have a MAC truck run over me in my sleep, then do a forty-eight point turn-around on my sinuses like they're a tight parking space at the grocery store. Maybe both are the same feeling. All I know is that some kind of low pressure systme moved in last night, my head feels all clogged, I walked across the living room floor first thing this morning and it felt like I was stepping on Reese's Puffs (oh, wait, I was), and little people keep YELLING - at me, at each other, at inanimate objects, and they want me to feed them and build forts for them. And all the lights are so BRIGHT. If that's not what the morning after a hardy weekend out is like, then I'll just stick with the MAC truck comparison. If it is, then it's a good thing I'm not a drinking woman.

If I were a pregnant woman...well, I'm not. So don't even think it. I think I just needed one more day of weekend. That's all. I spent the two days I had dancing with my Swiffer and a cricket, and catching up with old friends. I need a day for silence and stillness, then I could start with a Monday tomorrow.

I tried to talk David into calling in sick today. He reminded me he wasn't sick. I told him he could say his wife was. He said, "You're not, really." Stinkin' honesty. So I said, "Well, you could just tell them you can't come in today because your wife won't let go of your leg." And then he began one of his endearing hypothetical dialogues. (I get at least one such dialogue a day. Some are more entertaining that others.)

"What? Your two-year-old won't let go of your leg?"
"Um, no, my wife won't let go of my leg."
"Oh, I see. Totally understandable. Take the day. Take the week, if you need to."

He got my hopes up with that last line, then he left and here I am, engaging in a therapeutic blog, massaging my temples and rubbing my eyes, and typing sporadically. I'm also playing "This little piggy" intermittently (was that originally a drinking song?), just so my children know I do indeed hear them YELLING, am conscious of their toes kicking the keyboard every two seconds, and can feel them climbing up the back of my chair with a blanket-turned-wall-of-a-fort.

My other therapeutic activity is brainstorming a great redo of the boys' bedroom. I dream of the day I can potterybarnify my home (and realize the total williamssonomafication of my kitchen), but for right now, IKEA gets me through quite happily. It is going to be awesome. I promise to post "before" and "after" photos as soon as I get the plans off the drawing board and into reality.

Anything will be better than where they sleep now:



Just kidding. This was one of their projects a while back. They have an endless and tiresome fascination with emptying the books off the bookshelf on a daily basis. No number of time-outs, or explaining how to treat books like the friends they are, or slamming the dear books back on the shelves angrily - nothing - seems to eradicate this unfortunate recurrence in my life. So I am slowly learning to laugh at it. Laughing about it is easier now that Calvin can take it to a whole new level of creativity, and fashion beds out of the bottom two shelves. He's been wanting a "funk" bed for some time now. Guess he's tired of just dreaming about it, and he's taking action.

That makes two of us. I feel another busy weekend coming up, one that involves paint, shopping and clothes and toy sorting. That will almost certainly help me out of this post-weekend funk. But it will probably lead to another Monday like today, when I wonder where the weekend went, why I wasted it cleaning and socializing, why David can't take a day off so I can rest, and why a blanket fort is so vital right at this moment.

I may be starting to understand the whole drinking thing.

Addendum, two hours later: I was feeling better, or at least in better humor, after blogging today and I came downstairs to microwave some pot pies for us to eat. (They don't come in tins anymore! A new discovery for me! Makes lazy lunches even more do-able!) I poured the boys some juice, and told them lunch would be ready in a few minutes. Calvin said, "Mom, you're taking real good care of us." Sometimes it's just uncanny, his little appreciative remarks. Disturbing. And the guilt! Somebody pour me a cold one.

2 comments:

Angela said...

Twinkle, twinkle, Itsy-Bitsy Spider, AND Old McDonald, they're ALL drinking songs because after the 503rd time you have had to sing them or hear them, you'd rather be drunk, or have been driven to drink. Sorry about your head. My husband IS sick and DID call in. But not before he first tried to go on a flight this morning because in his drunk stupor of illness last night tried to postpone it, wasn't successful (read, didn't understand that there were stipulations he could follow--normally, but couldn't follow in his stupor) in a stupor fit of anger, decided to get on his flight. I told him I'd beat the snot out of someone if they got on a plane and sat next to me as sick as he was. He didn't get on the plane. It's really not all that great having him actually be sick. He hears me swearing and hollering at the kids, a behavior I usually reserve for daytimes when he's NOT around.

Tess said...

the picture of the "funk" beds is awesome