Dear Monday,

Usually we get along.  I smile condescendingly when other people post Monday whiner posts.  Well, Monday, you got me.  You're on steroids.  Stop taking yourself so seriously. 

Actually, after two hours of getting nothing accomplished I'm starting to feel leveled off.  They did, in fact, make it to school on time.  Appropriately dressed.  Even though someone grew five inches last night, and the tights crotch was down to the knees and the dress hem up to the hips.  All three dress hems, in fact, that attempted to parade out the door after the parade had been sent upstairs to put on some jeans--twice.  Apparently they're all in the pile of dirty laundry lying on the floor next to the empty hamper.  Pink corduroys were found.  Too short and too big around the middle.  But better than saggy tights.

I can remember literally nothing else that was stressful about this morning, and this seems funny now.  I take it back, Monday.  This letter is not to you.
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Dear Anna,

Mondays are never your enemy.  They are transition.  You had a really great and messy Valentine's Day, and that's why everyone was so tired this morning.  It was messy in all the ways.  This is what you like about life, remember?  The mess.  The challenge.  And the way that the joy and sunshine burn almost unbearably bright after the struggle.  So what if you think joy should not be so hard to bear?  Too bad.  You're joyful.  And raw joy hurts.  Say thank you, thank you, thank you until it feels like peace and light in your arms and your belly.  Then gear up, because life slows down for no one, and you have work to do.

Sincerely & With Sincere Love,
Yourself