Manic Monday

"What the hell happened here?"

Does anyone else say that to themselves as they survey the damage done to their homes over the weekend? Toys are everywhere, dirty laundry litters the bedroom floors, the recycling bin is full to overflowing with beer and wine bottles, the sink is full of Sunday night dessert dishes because the dishwasher has't been run.

I guess some of this is not a mystery. I am working hard at taking the weekends off to some degree. For two days, I try to halt the constant cycle of bringing down full hampers, loading and unloading the washer and dryer, laundering only my soaking wet workout clothes, lest they infect the rest of the hamper's contents. The daily running of the vacuum doesn't happen, resulting in dog hair and crumb covered floors. And my manic wiping of the bathroom services decreases, resulting in a urine encrusted toilet, thanks to Little Man's poor aim and solidified toothpaste ooze on the sides of the sink. H does not keep as close an eye on things like mittens and sneakers, so items that are vital for school attendance, have to be frantically searched for.

So on Monday, payback is a bitch. Yes, everyone hates Monday, but for moms its' a different story. Monday morning, everyone trudges off to work and school, brushed, cleaned and fed, and I am the one left holding the bag, tired, with a slight hangover, having to sort all out of this mess by three o'clock. Taking some time to downshift puts me so far behind, making me wonder if it's worth it at all. H listens to my complaints patiently, but I don't think he really gets it. Sure, some people work so many hours, they may feel like it, but I literally live at work. The way I try to explain it to H? "Imagine you sort out all your stuff for the week, knowing what has to be done on Monday, and you shut your office door for the weekend, heading home to relax. Now imagine someone breaks into your office and has party. Now on Monday morning, you not only have to accomplish what you set out to do this week, but also pick corn chips out of your office chair and beer bottles out of your desk drawers, and find the files you desperately need which have been moved to mysterious locations."

I suppose part one solution could be to have everyone keep track of their stuff, requiring my riding them constantly, which is SUPER fun, and really makes H want to make out with me, or, alternately, stay in weekday mode, which is nearly impossible seven days a week and/or with a hangover. Or I could round up the troops Sunday night for a house reorg, instead of having family movie or game night. Isn't a full-house cleaning what memories are made of?

So for right now, Operation Put the House Back Together will remain a Monday morning project. At least until the day I find some kind of part-time gig and all five of us race out of the house Monday mornings. Then we can all return home to the wake of the weekend tornado. But then I'll probably wind up putting my entire salary toward a housekeeper, but to avoid embarrassment, I'll empty the recycling myself.

But you're older...

I watch you trudge away to school each morning, my oldest, back bowed under the weight of your heavy school bag, stuffed with math and social studies textbooks and vocabulary flashcards, your flute case slapping away at your thigh with each step, and I sigh. I sigh because I watch your younger sister trip-trapping along behind you, lost in some daydream, her backpack feather-light, with nothing but a single composition notebook and folder containing one color-by-number addition sheet, and knowing you will be coaxing her along the entire journey, your eye on the time, ensuring neither one of you will be late. Your back is bowed, not only by the tools and accessories required to be a fourth grader, but with the weight of being my oldest child.

I have already expressed how you are the child who made me a mother, who turned me from a girl-woman, into the head of a family, and written about the inequity in the older sibling-younger sibling relationship, but I have never written these words before. We have something special, kid.

Nobody wants to say it. Not parents, not children, but we all know it's true. Every mother has a special relationship with their oldest child. Before I am labeled completely heartless, let me exclaim my love for my other two kids. I love all of you equally, but in different ways. #2 is my thinker, my challenge, she makes me see the world in a new way. Little Man is my comic relief. A sitcom to the drama that is raising two girls. You, my oldest are my sidekick, my right-hand man, the one whose eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror when the other two are driving me crazy. Even when you were small, you knew how to help me. When your sister fell and cut her lip open on the coffee table (that your overly confident parents refused to bumper), as I held her bleeding and screaming in the bathroom, assessing the damage, on the phone with the doctor, you ran your four year-old self to #2's bed, and found her baby doll to calm her down. Two summers ago, when we took our first Daddy-free trip to the beach, when Little Man took a huge diarrhea dump in his sandy diaper, and your sister refused to use the outdoor shower, and I stood there, trying to hose off a crying, shit-covered baby, with a screeching four year-old on my leg, you asked me, with a hint of pity, "Is it hard to be a Mom some days?", and I knew you saw me.

Maybe this relationship is born of necessity. Spending so many hours with humans under the age of reason, we mothers grasp at the highest form of interaction available. We might not be discussing politics, but your oldest can at least carry on a conversation about the attributes of each Backyardigan. And, true, once we mothers are outnumbered by offspring, you eldests are forced into a level of dependability that might not be all that fair. But I consider it a trade off. You got me for two un-interrupted years. I never jostled you around and came dangerously close to bashing your head in, nursing you while making peanut butter sandwiches. So asking you to put on your brother's shoes doesn't make me feel all that guilty - most of the time.

Today, as the little two are home sick, and you got yourself up and dressed, brushed your own teeth and hair, and departed for school alone, I felt it. As an oldest myself, I know how little comfort "but you're older" is when you feel you are the only one being asked to clean the bathroom, while the other two only have to empty the wastebaskets. But while you are toiling away, remember who gets to sleep in the top bunk and who's going to get their drivers' license first. Sure, you pave the way with all the hard stuff, but you also reap the rewards.

I hope among those rewards, is the knowledge of how much I appreciate you and the smart, strong, independent girl you have become. On that cold walk this morning, I hope you can remember that it's you, up later than the others, who, several nights a week, sneaks into bed with me to read. When we snuggle in and you tell me, "I like when it's just you and me", know I feel the same way. Eventually, you fall asleep with your wiry body wrapped around me, and I hope you get to feel little for the last few minutes of your day. Even though you are my biggest, you are still my first baby.

This pretty much describes my day....

"OPERATION POO! STEP AWAY!"

Sample courtesy of Little Man, ("I was too tired to get up"). Signage courtesy of #2 (no pun intended).