Having my Sundays on a Monday pays off for everyone.
Mondays are cookie day. This is a holdover from the days in Newfoundland, when the mornings were cold and dark and the house was full of dragging, moaning teenage girls who hated waking up for school. “There is literally nothing good about Mondays,” my youngest aunt complained. So my mother started baking chocolate chip cookies every Monday before her university classes, to give the high schoolers something to look forward to. This was wonderful, and immediately taken for granted, and she quit baking the first time she was late making them and someone got pissed and demanded to know where the cookies were. But I have reinstated the tradition for the ungrateful youth, because familiarity might breed contempt, but nobody remembers that bit when they’re reminiscing about cookies as an adult. I’m in for the long payoff. And for the cookies.
Mondays are also beach day. This is just because it’s my day to pick up the kids, and their school is on a beach. The baby will not touch the sand, but she will consent to being dandled in the water. I need to get her a swimsuit, though, because naked babies become greased piglets the moment they get wet. Something with handles.
Mondays are also salmon night. This is due to the fish-hating man’s bi-monthly meetings that keep him out of the house at dinnertime while we hork down buttered fillets. We will all be brilliantly brain-lubricated while he descends into premature dementia and madness. That is nature in action.
So all in all, Mondays are pretty great. Befuddled by general goodwill, I plopped the baby into her stroller and walked up to the grocery store to buy her a new coloring book. I am not a princess enthusiast, and I am grumpy about the pervasive pinkness marketed to girls, so it took some digging to find a coloring book in an acceptable color scheme. This turned out to be the Frozen coloring book. Fine, it’s princesses, but it’s seasonal, and the movie passed the Bechdel test. We haven’t watched Frozen since it came out in theaters, so I loaded up the music video on my phone, just to give the child some context. Zenny examined it for a moment, then stood up, flung her arms out, and belted out a Tarzan version of Let it Go. LE-I-OOOOOH LE-I-OOOOOH! IYAN OWANANANAMOOOOOO.
WHAT. BABYSITTER. I AM ON TO YOU. Unless the salmon oil has imbued her with some sort of precognition, which would be too horrible to consider. But which I will now be testing with flash cards.
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