By Maria Duffy. First published on Monday 22nd February 2010. No Comments so far.


Oh how I hate Sunday nights. It’s a shame really. Sunday night is actually a nice night in itself, but it’s the anticipation of Monday that ruins it for me.

Now the mornings aren’t too bad really. Once I untangle myself from the oh so snug duvet and throw some cold water on my face, I usually manage to muddle through. It’s only really an hour of madness of ‘Mom, can I have cheese instead of ham’, ‘Mom, where’s my dancing shoes?’, ‘Mom, is my uniform still in the laundry basket?’, ‘Mom, I need a white hairband and green skirt for my show in school today!’ That last one is a killer. I mean, where does my daughter think I’m going to produce these things from? They obviously think I have an ‘everything tree’ outside in the garden and all I have to do is go and pick whatever they need from it!

The few hours from twenty past nine until two o’clock is wonderful. Don’t get me wrong; I love my children dearly and wouldn’t be without them, but I don’t mind suffering it for a few hours – for the sake of their education of course.

But back to Mondays. At half past one, I stick my brain into autodrive and let the afternoon fun begin. At two, I pick up my son from school then at three I take him with me to collect my daughter from school. I take her to stage school for half three and go to pick up my older son from school at four. I then collect the aforementioned daughter from stage school at half five and bring my older daughter to piano for a quarter to six. I pick her up at a quarter past six and drop my older son off to piano at the same time. I drop the older daughter to stage school for half six then rush back to collect son from piano for quarter to seven. If I remember, I go and pick up my daughter from stage school at nine. Believe me, I’ve forgotten one or more of those pick ups on more than one occasion! Now I know I’m in the fortunate position of being a stay at home mom so all this running around is possible, but I just felt like having a little moan about it anyway.

It’s one o’clock Monday morning now and I’m wondering if I should do some more writing, watch some TV or go to bed. Why is it that I never want to go to bed when I should (like right now) but never want to get out of it when I should either? Back in the days of crying babies I could only dream of being able to go to bed and sleep, but now that I can go and sleep through the night, it seems like such a waste. But my black shadowed eyes are just about hanging in there so I think I’ll take the bed option. Nighty night.

Maria x

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