Monday

Woke up disgruntled.
I'm not ready for Monday.
I'm not ready for next Monday either.
By then, I'll still be behind on all the everything I should have done for this Monday.
This whole housewife-homeschooling-mom-to-four-boys-five-and-under life isn't hard.
It's impossible.

Pulled myself out into the kitchen.  The stove was cold.  So was the floor.  So were my feet.
Got banged in the head with the toilet seat when helping a toddler wrangle his pants.  My eyebrow hurts. I hope it doesn't bruise.  I don't want to explain it to any concerned citizens.  

There's a mountain of laundry.  I want to avoid it, but the kids have no underwear in their drawers.  They realize this after flinging off their pajamas.  We rummage together through the dryer, their unashamed little bodies diving in to claim personal items.  "Mom, the floor's cold!"  They wail.
"Put your clothes on!" I order, impatient as they are to get out of the cold laundry room.

My husband and I sit together briefly over lukewarm coffee.  There's syrup all over the table.  He works in retail; this is the busy season.  "Do I know you?" We joke, finishing the boys' half-eaten french toast.  I can't wait for January when we can introduce ourselves to each other again.  We've switched on survival mode autopilot.  I wish, today, we could just stop flying for a moment.  No.  We can't.
He goes off to work.  I feel alone.  The Proverbs 31 wife isn't showing up today.  At least she had servants to help, I think.  Blah.  Sighing is so destructive.  This pity party has to stop.  But I think I'm having too much fun being miserable.

There is dirt - and milk splatters? - on the walls.  I need to wipe those.  There are bathrooms to clean.  There is laundry.  Always laundry.  There are dishes.  Oh, and there are kids.  I need to do some school.

I read, then Gavin reads.  Shiloh and Henry fight loudly over firetrucks.  They call a truce to yell at each other through the baby monitors.  I can't seem to explain "one-way" to toddlers who grasp cell phone usage.  They are noisy.  The baby has learned to roll, but doesn't use his legs.  He flips until he hits a wall, then pushes backwards until he gets stuck under a bookshelf or sofa.  Then he hollars.  I rescue him so he can help us eat the school books Gavin's trying to decipher.

Lunch.  I start a movie to enjoy the ensuing relative calm and heat a pot of water.  Boxed macaroni and cheese; they'll love it.  Maybe I can start blogging while the water heats... Today's mail is taunting me from the keyboard.  I need to get the Christmas cards out.  The water boils.  I'll blog at naptime.  I say that every day, hoping.  The baby throws his cucumbers off the high chair.  Cucumbers are slippery.  Watch your step.

Sweet four year old spends longer than usual quietly not-napping in his bed.  "How nice of him to stay there so quietly when I know he's not sleeping," I think.  He appears a few minutes later, announcing, "I pulled all the feathers out of froggy!"
I smile wanly.  "Really, Honey?  All his stuffing?"
"Yup." He grins innocently.  "Now it looks like a big white garbage mountain!  And Froggy didn't have babies in his tummy."
So glad we resolved that question.  We go upstairs and find the big stuffed frog quite deflated.  His polyfill "feathers" are indeed heaped in a big pile.  Someone is ordered to re-stuff his fluffy pal and I add vacuuming to my list.

Gavin asks curiously, "When are we going to do those Christmas projects you said we have to start?"
"Maybe never," I think a bit frantically, "Or maybe after Christmas, when I can breathe again."  I shove a book of mazes at him instead.  It placates him; he loves mazes.  The two year old dumps crayons out to find the perfect blue one.  I set up an appointment for the baby for the next year while they squabble in the background.  I need a calendar up for January already.

I change the nappers.  Nurse the baby.  He humors me until a strand of my hair chances into his view.  He yanks that to his mouth instead.  I stop nursing.  Time to start supper anyway.
The beets stain my fingers.  Now its too hot in the kitchen with the woodstove and oven and witching-hour-fussing all raising my blood pressure.
They get the table half set.  I bring the food and the baby in.  Their plates get food.  We pray.  I cut meat.  I yell at the two year old to get back in his chair.  I forgot to pour their cups.  Don't attack the beans with that end of your fork.  Get back in your chair.  Eat!  Yes, you may be excused.  No, you eat your beans.

Bathtime.  Pajamas.  Close the gate so the baby doesn't roll down the stairs.  Don't take the fluff out of Froggy again.  We can sew him tomorrow.  Yes, sleep will make you grow.  Yes, you will be bigger than me.  But not tomorrow.  Go to sleep!  Aren't you tired?  I am.  I love you.  Good night.

Dishes.  Handwash that sweater.  Why must I "lay flat to dry"?  There is no "flat" to lay it on in this house!  It ends up on the floor.  I must remember to move it before the boys step on it and why did I buy a handwash only garment anyway?  Its as close as I've gotten to the sweaterdress I've wanted for about six years now.  Its becoming an obsession.  I've been either pregnant or nursing every winter.  Maybe next year.  If its machine washable.

I'm so tired.  Tomorrow is coming so quickly.  The boys wake up excited to start their day.  I woke up this morning excited for the moment it would be bedtime.  I should take lessons from the little whipper snappers.  Glad not everyday is a Monday.  Today sure was.  Mercifully, tomorrow is new.  I look forward to it.  I hope its not another Monday.