Every Monday morning I wake up with a pit in my stomach. I dread getting up to find the mess that inevitably awaits me.
During the week, I manage to keep the house livable. Sure there’s some clutter, but it’s manageable. The junk mail is sorted, the tufts of dog hair are cleaned up, toys stay mostly in the playroom.
Something very sinister happens over the weekend, though. The clutter appears to multiply. For some reason everything we get out from toys to shoes to breast pumps, never manages to find it’s way back to it’s intended location.
The only variable between the weekdays and the weekend is TATE. (Cue the dramatic music..duh, duh, duh…) However, I certainly don’t think it’s fair to only blame him for all the clutter, for as I look around this morning, I see MY shoes, MY breast pump, MY water glass from the night before… Of course, I also see his socks, his pile of receipts on the counter, his unfinished weekend projects…
But, it’s not just the clutter. There floors looked like I’ve never vacuumed them (I vacuumed FRIDAY). The couch cushions are all slouchy (I fluff them EVERYDAY). Even the g*d damned refrigerator is a mess. Jars aren’t on the correct shelves, the veggie bin is a mess, and there’s suddenly about 25 leftover containers that desperately need to be thrown away before we all die of botulism.
What happens to us on the weekend? Does Tate somehow possess me with his inherent man-slovenliness? Help me! I’m drowning in this Monday morning mess! I’m going to develop an ulcer from the Sunday night dread leading into Monday morning.
I’m off to begin the insurmountable task of cleaning. And to swig a gallon of Mylanta.