I hate Fridays.
My tongue feels like concrete.
<p class="photocaption"> Doodaddy on Fridays </p> </td>
I just cleaned my glasses but my vision is still foggy. Like Mr. Magoo, but not the cheerful part.
The piles of in-process boxes that just yesterday filled me with the excitement for moving today strike me as ominously reminiscent of post-disaster scenes on TV news.
What happened to the old Doodaddy, the one would suffer fools lightly, meet challenges with bold abandon, and stay cheerful in the face of all the sham and antagonism?
- I yelled at the woman who cut me off in the crosswalk while on her cell phone. And, unlike last week, there was no cop around to write her a ticket. That would have cheered me up.
- I got all self-conscious with the shy mom at the playground because I’d forgotten her boy’s name once, a month ago. So I got shy, too.
- When Buddy Boy monopolized a swing that Boo was on, I didn’t “parent” it at all — I just took the baby away and played somewhere else.
Friday should be a joyous day, right? Working Mom and I will be able to parent together, spend a little personal time, get some stuff done, and heck, it’s Father’s Day coming up, so I might be able to score a backrub!
Why, then, do Fridays feel so… blech? Do at-home moms get the Friday blues, too?