Mondays
There is this song, "I Don't Like Mondays." I love that song. I hate Mondays. "I wanna shoot the whole day down, down, down, shoot it all down..." Today it’s Monday, and all of yesterday and today came together in a big blur. I wish I could wipe the day clean and start over again, then I could be prepared for everything that went awry, that just slipped off track.
Sunday night, I got the girls back from their Dad’s house. Note to self: Never offer to pick the kids up from Drew’s place again. As tortuous as Cara’s tearful and resentful goodbye is to her Dad when he drops them off, it is that much worse pulling her away from his house and enduring the 15-20 minute ride home. I felt like a terrible person, taking the poor child away from her father. At the same time, I am deeply injured by the idea that she could love him more than – or even as much as – me. After all, I keep thinking, he didn’t give birth to her. He didn’t house her in his body for over 9 months, and then push her out into the world using every ounce of strength in his body. When did milk ever flow from his breasts to sustain life? (and, for a moment, I feel almost goddess like when I think of women this way – with the ability to house and sustain life…) Does that mean nothing anymore?
After an exhausting evening of appeasing my Mommy-guilt by trying to make up for every minute, hour, day, and night I have to spend away from them, I stay up nearly the entire evening working on a project for work. After cleaning the kitchen. After putting the clothes away. After taking a rushed shower and deciding that, once again, I do not have enough time to shave my legs. There is not time to complete the day, before the next one begins. So, today, I am still trying to finish with yesterday and nothing is going right. Loose ends, losing ends, losing it.
No, I don’t like Mondays.
Sunday night, I got the girls back from their Dad’s house. Note to self: Never offer to pick the kids up from Drew’s place again. As tortuous as Cara’s tearful and resentful goodbye is to her Dad when he drops them off, it is that much worse pulling her away from his house and enduring the 15-20 minute ride home. I felt like a terrible person, taking the poor child away from her father. At the same time, I am deeply injured by the idea that she could love him more than – or even as much as – me. After all, I keep thinking, he didn’t give birth to her. He didn’t house her in his body for over 9 months, and then push her out into the world using every ounce of strength in his body. When did milk ever flow from his breasts to sustain life? (and, for a moment, I feel almost goddess like when I think of women this way – with the ability to house and sustain life…) Does that mean nothing anymore?
After an exhausting evening of appeasing my Mommy-guilt by trying to make up for every minute, hour, day, and night I have to spend away from them, I stay up nearly the entire evening working on a project for work. After cleaning the kitchen. After putting the clothes away. After taking a rushed shower and deciding that, once again, I do not have enough time to shave my legs. There is not time to complete the day, before the next one begins. So, today, I am still trying to finish with yesterday and nothing is going right. Loose ends, losing ends, losing it.
No, I don’t like Mondays.
posted by Joy | 3:41 PM
2 Comments:
I think the song "I don't like Mondays" was orginially song by the Boomtown Rats
yeah, i know. tori amos made a record singing a bunch of songs that had been written by men. i think she even sings, "happiness is a warm gun," on the cd. i just associate it with her, because i hear her sing it more. that said, i don't really listen to tori amos much, but she's a brilliant musician.
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