Monday Sprung

For the months after I had my daughter I utterly LOATHED Sunday night, as
it meant I had to prepare to return to work and leave her (albeit in very
trustworthy hands) for another round of 10.5 hour days (I work an hour from
home - in good traffic).

Earlier this month, I re-awakened to that sensation. It's not that I ever
found myself rejoicing at the idea of Monday morning, but that the agony of
leaving her had sort of normalized into my regular Sunday night mind-prep
routine. It has always amazed me how adaptable the human spirit really is.

But as I said, recently I've rediscovered the tragedy of Sunday night.

Part of me says it's just that I (like EVERY mammal I know) suffer, to some
degree, the effects of SAD. The longer days, full of sunshine and warmth
bring me almost un-namable joy. These beautiful days on their own are
reason enough to dread Monday morning.

It's drastically increased when compounded by:

the feeling of accomplishment after a long day of yard work
the delicious aroma of pre-summertime bliss
- grilled meat
- fresh cut grass
- bunches of daffodils on the dining room table
- the (generally) uninterrupted company of my husband, and
- the absolute delight of witnessing the world through my daughter's fresh
eyes

Good Heavens, it's all I can do to bring myself to work on most days, but a
Monday morning, in the hour before the birds wake up, after a weekend of
absolute joy...

this is torture.