Monday has never been my favorite day of the week. In fact as Sunday winds down I usually get mopey because that means Monday is just around the corner. Save for those few Mondays every year that are a holiday. I like those Mondays. But usually, I am not a fan.
I love Thursdays. Maybe because as a kid my favorite TV shows were on Thursday evenings. Or perhaps it’s because, for years, it was chorus rehearsal night and I always looked forward to that. Now that I have a “real” nine-to-five job I love Thursdays even more because it means that I am already more than half-way through the work week and the next day is Friday. Fridays at work always seem to fly by and in general, everyone seems to be in good spirits. But Mondays? No thank you.
Except, my Libby was born on a Monday. That was the best Monday of my life. It’s been 17 Mondays since she was born. And three of them have had me dragging myself out of bed, away from her warm little body and sweet baby sighs and into slacks that are still a little too snug around the waist and shoes that feel a little too high. She stirs from her slumber between 4 and 5 a.m. and I quickly change her diaper and snuggle her back into my side of the bed (well, it’s really our side nowadays) and nurse her back to sleep. She’s like a magnet, though, and tries her best to pull me back to dreamland with her, but I resist and finally pry myself out of the bed and into the reality of being a working mother who has to be in the office by 7 a.m.
So, Monday still isn’t my favorite day of the week. Now, it’s the day that abruptly ends those two lovely days I have in a row with my baby girl when I can nurse her whenever she wants and my trusty Medela pump and its parts stay sanitized and tucked away. It’s the day I put on my professional attire and try to focus on data reports and not let my mind wander to wonder what cute little thing she might be doing. My efforts to push ahead and be so busy that the day flies by without too much time lost to missing her are completely futile once I feel my milk letdown. My body instantly reminds me that I am most definitely missing my little one. And then my heart aches.
The only thing that makes Monday tolerable is that it was the day she was born. But otherwise? I hate Mondays.