This morning I experienced one of my typical Monday guilt-fests.
Every Monday, I don my Domestic Diva crown and proceed to unlock my inner June Cleaver. I go to the grocery store for the week’s provisions, pre-make lunches for Michael, Emma and me, do laundry, and clean. It takes me hours to get all of that shi, er, stuff done. My Monday case of the guilts isn’t about the activities themselves (although I would describe them as loathsome at best), it’s about berating myself for not getting a bunch of my work stuff done too.
Take today for example. I have been running around all day long — chopping, folding, boiling, wrapping, wiping, filling, cooking, and every other f@$king -ing I could imagine. Yet, my Work To Do list — listen to the final version of the Opening the Kimono audiobook, approve the cover design, review my speaking informational sheet, mail more books, send new press releases out, etc. — is crying out to me, begging me to scratch something off it. Alas, it looks the same as it did at 7:00am when I wrote the sucker. It mocks me with its bullet points. Now, in addition to being exhausted from doing the unsavory elements of the MomJob, I now have a whopping heaping of professional guilt ladled on top of it. And I do this to myself nearly every Monday. No one said I was the brightest bulb in the box.
I wish I could just accept the fact that Monday mornings are No-work Zones. If I’d just surrender to it, I’d feel a helluva lot better and wouldn’t be such a crabby-ass when I pick up my daughter from the bus (which is in a half-hour). I’m going to try my best to forgive myself for not being all things to all people, all of the time. Sometimes I don’t need to be Theresa Rose, Author. Speaker. Healer. Bringer of the Mojo. On Monday mornings, I just need to be Mom.