My Relationship with a Work Week

{Found on Pinterest, source unknown}

Something strange happens as the work week inches slowly toward the weekend.

Starting with Monday, each passing day toward Saturday gets progressively more apathetic in my house.

On Monday we're still trying our best.

Putting our shoes away when we get home, because we just spent ALL DAY Sunday organizing shoes and cleaning the floor.

We still wipe the counters down after making dinner, still not only put our plates in the sink, but also WASH them after eating.

We're on our first date with this new week, and we want to impress it. Show it how organized and motivated we can be. I pick out the kids' clothes for the next day before I go to bed, I crawl in between clean sheets, free of Leggos, hot wheels, and for the love of God, sand.

{where does the sand come from? after months, YEARS, away from a playground that has sand, there will still be sand, inexplicably in my bed, so long as there are children in my house}

Along comes Tuesday, and we're definitely tired, but we haven't given up.

Sure, we're going to have a Stouffer's frozen lasagna for dinner, but hey, I might still make a salad with it, or some garlic bread.

I'll still remind the now slightly sluggish kids to put their shoes away, bring their cups back into the kitchen before bed, and at least rinse their dinner plates.

Before bed I still pick out their socks and underwear, at the very least.

Wednesday is up next, and she doesn't like us very much.

We stagger in the house at the end of the day like prize fighters who have fought their last round, and lost miserably.

Are your shoes put away? I don't even know.

What's for dinner? I don't even want to think about it.

By this day of the week are there still people actually cooking an entire meal, or are they ordering pizza too? I don't even care.

Just get me home. Get these pants off me. Get me to bed.

Thursday we catch a second wind.

We're excited! Tomorrow's Friday! It's almost over!

But then we remember that Friday isn't awesome until Friday is over, and you still have to get through the whole. friggin. day. before it's over,

Forget it. Just eat some cereal for dinner and go to bed without a bath. We're almost to Saturday.

Friday comes and we are absolutely limping across the finish line.

Mismatched socks? Fine.

Jeans you've worn twice this week already? Whatever.

You outgrew that shirt back in January, but you got it on by yourself rockstar, so lets just get the hell out of here and finish this week before I have a stroke.

Saturday morning dawns to find the house, and it's occupants, in complete disrepair.

The sink is so full of dishes you cannot so much as wash a fork without stirring up the stench of Wednesdays dinner remnants still dying a slow death in the drain.

The laundry situation has mutated from something calm and domestic, resting in an adorable little pile in it's basket by the washer, to a monsterous mountain of hell that hates you and everything you stand for.

No one is even sure at this point how the trash bag in the bin is still hanging on, but you're all very proud of it.

So you spend two straight days scrubbing and tossing and washing and folding and cussing and swearing that you will never ever ever let it get like this again.

Sunday night closes on a sparkling house, fresh laundry, and a house that smells like soap and not trash and dirty cat boxes.

You feel satisfied and ready for the week.

It will be different this time, you say.

I'll do better this time, you say.

But Wednesday is waiting for you. And she's an asshole.