My feathers are ruffled my nerves on end. Hour after hour my baby’s tears have dropped. All he wants is I to curl with him under covers, soothe him with my time. But I hear the hark of duty, Marion pleading to finish science lesson and Davina needs assistance in the bathroom and my washer is making frightful noises and Roger is expected to return for lunch any minute. And it is Monday! And I wonder at the saints who have raised babies into adulthood. How did they manage the Mondays, steep hills of laundry and the seemingly always empty bellies, those merry-go-rounds of tears, and the list of never ending needs? And I feel like a broken record, meeting on Monday to admit my humanness and the admission that I have resort to a less then ideal aid. Seeped black Java accompanied by a deep breath and a humble pray. Jolted, I gather my force, tie my hair in a pony and face today’s next round of jostling motherhood.

Friends, maybe just maybe I will come through my day unscathed and be able to meet you here tomorrow.

xoxo

Rosaleen