A Case of the Mondays

Somebody has a case of the Mondays on a Tuesday. I’ve always hated that saying. It’s just a passive aggressive way of saying, “Wow. You’re being a grumpy asshole.” Yes. I am. My morning went something like this: I overslept. When I went to make coffee the filter slipped out of my hand, coating the wall and floor with wet coffee grounds. While attempting to help my 5-year-old put his shoes on got a clump of sticky goop on my hand. “What is that?” I asked. “Oh,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s just dog poop.” Just dog poop?. Thank God. If it was horse poop we would have a problem, but it’s just dog poop. ON MY HAND. He stepped in it yesterday, but didn’t mention to me that it needed to be washed. Should I be concerned that he doesn’t mind walking around with fecal matter on his sneaker? He laughed. I didn’t.

My daughter stood at the shower door while I scrubbed the germs off my body. “I can see you,” she said. We talked about Dora, what she would make with play-dough and her lunch plans. It always includes chocolate. I took a deep breath and smiled. It wasn’t going to be such a bad day after all. Then, she told me a joke, “Knock, Knock.” “Who’s there?” I said. “A clown,” she giggled. “A clown who?” “A clown punches you in the face,” she replied followed by a deep belly laugh. What? Is it Friday yet?

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