Most people don’t care for Mondays.  Having a “case of the Mondays” (thank you, Office Space, for forever imprinting that phrase into our vocabularies) is not rare.  We complain about it all Monday long; some even start on Sunday night.  Even if one has a bad day through the week, they take comfort in the fact that “at least it’s not Monday”.

I kind of feel bad for Monday.  Unless it enjoys all the negative attention; if that’s the case, I don’t have as much sympathy for it.  Anyway…

I don’t typically mind Mondays.  My kids return to school, leaving me some time to catch up on, well, everything.  Grocery shopping, meetings, laundry, and whatever else I can squeeze into that glorious seven hours.  It’s much needed time for me to regroup, reorganize, and recharge for the rest of the week.

This is the one Monday of the year that I despise.

Daylight Savings Time…who came up with this idea??  Every year, it inevitably throws my kids into a spiraling, out of control, at-least-one-week-long tantrum.  You wouldn’t think that one hour would really derail their schedules so much…but it does.  It is so not worth the extra drama that I have to deal with, just to have an extra hour of daylight.  Seriously, wouldn’t it eventually stay lighter if we just sat back and waited?  Of course, that requires patience, something that we all tend to struggle with, so I suppose that is what sparked this grand idea of DST.  (Please note the sarcasm dripping off my words here; obviously, I do know the origins and reasoning behind DST.  Ha!)

I knew that this morning would be a battle.  Most Monday mornings are, but this one would be different.  The big kids (you know, the ones who actually needed to be up and moving; the little one bounded down the steps extra early today, go figure!) slept “late”, meaning that they actually slept until their normal time, but because of our egotistical manipulation of the clocks, they overslept.  Yes, I could have dragged them out of bed “on time”, but that would have led to more tantrums.  So, I took one for the team and let them sleep as late as possible, and then I got to run around, squawking like an irritated parrot, to get them ready to go.  “Eat your breakfast!…Where are your shoes?…Put this in your backpack!…Shoes, find them!…Did you brush your teeth?…Seriously, the shoes!!!”

All of this drama, plus the absence of their beloved bus driver, made my oldest kiddo decide that he was not going to the bus.  Sorry, kid, not happening today.  I shoved my feet into my sneakers, took his hand, and escorted him to the bus.  Not a pretty sight, mind you, as I had spent all my time thus far getting the kids ready to school.  The substitute bus driver smiled, waved, and asked “How are you today?”  It was all I could do to not answer “Well, I’m bringing my kid to the bus, in my pj’s and no bra, and some serious bedhead.  How do you think I’m doing today?”  I would have never said that out loud; rather, I smiled widely, pretending that I always parade around my driveway looking like this, and wished him a good day.

A good Monday.  I’m determined that it really is a possibility.  I know I’m ready to cut Monday some slack and get to work.  But don’t get me started on Tuesdays…