I don’t have my life together on Mondays, just look at my nail polish…


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Confession: chipped nail polish is my identity.


Monday (this is where I insert the gun emoticon facing the word Monday). Bang.

Monday’s are ugly, the kind of ugly your husband wakes to when you’ve forgotten to wash off a full face of make-up highlighted by falsies (which have fallen off through the night and are now doubling as extra eyebrows) and red lipstick (now mirroring some facial war paint of a 3rd world tribe you’re not apart of). The kind of ugly your husband can’t even laugh in the face of, bless him.

The above, has never happened to me.

But, Mondays are especially hideous when they end a long, lazy holiday break. Worse, when for some reason you thought to schedule two children’s doctor appointments on the first day back from said break.

I remember setting up those appointments, knowing, but refusing to accept that I’d come to regret doing this to myself. I’m positive I did this to myself on a day I was feeling fearless, one of those sacred days when I was not in pajamas, my face actually saw the sun, and I communicated with adults—face to face.

The truth is moms like me have to ease back into a schedule, not pretend they have their crap together on the first day back with two appointments.

Regardless, I found myself at the eye doctor with both Avayah and Anabella this very fine, bright, I-didn’t-drink-enough-coffee, Monday morning.

(Back story, Anabella is a stage 10 clinger. Like we breathe and blink at the same time, our hearts actually beat together as one, and if we’re not within five inches of one another, we, no, she is having a baby crisis. *She is my last baby, I cater. Judge me.)

If I thought clinginess was bad, stranger danger is a whole other monster.

There we are, in an exam room that feels like a jail cell. The sweetest nurse is asking questions, typing my responses, and Anabella is curled into my lap, paranoid. Her eyes are accessing. Me. Or. Avayah. Me. Or. Avayah.

The moment the nurse turns and calls her name, Anabella is done. She starts turning into me. “Mama.”

“Bella, it’s okay…” She must remember that this is exactly what I said before she got three shots nearly a month ago. Her eyes shoot betrayal daggers at me, yet she can’t dismiss how strong her clinger instincts are.

“MAMA!!!!!” She screams, bear hugging me.

The nurse looks alarmed, but she’s experienced, not missing a beat. “Bella, look at my flashlight? Do you like flashlights?”

Bella is having no part of this, her wails are trying to not only match the decibel of the nurses tone, but flat out drown the nurse’s questions. This is the point all moms feel obligated to work their magic. Here I go.

“Bella, look Mama is looking at the flashlight.” I start looking at the light, waiting to be hypnotized, semi-forgetting this is Bella’s eye appointment, not therapy.

Bella side peeks up at the nurse at the exact moment the nurse says, “look here Bella.”

“Not my eyes! My eyes!” Bella cries, slapping both hands over her eyes, shielding her against this stranger’s laser beams. Yep, it all goes downhill from there.

Later, when I hold Anabella down for the nurse to administer drops to dilate her eyes, I wasn’t sure I wanted to cry more in that moment from Bella being scared, or Avayah huffing in the corner acting like I was letting her sister be sacrificed before her very eyes.

I nearly fall apart (that moment when you feel so flustered, feverish, close to vomiting because your surroundings are pure chaos and you’ve lost complete control) when the Optometrist comes in and tells me that he has to look at the back of my screaming child’s eyes.

Let me paint that picture for you…

You’re sitting in the eye exam chair, similar to a dental chair (this is before you know the chair can actually flip back to mirror one of those inversion tables you’ve seen on infomericals) with a terrified two year old in your lap, who is not only screaming, still, but has added bucking, kicking, and arms flailing to the menu as well. The doctor kindly asks you to hold her down, mainly those wild appendages that threaten to make him lose his own sight, before he flips back the chair so your head is now closer to the ground than your feet. You try so hard not to laugh.

It feels ridiculous.

There I am, upside down in a chair, cradling my two year old feeling like a contortionist (my arms wrapped, pinning her arms down, yet my hands manage to unhook from my wrists to also wrap around her face, while my legs criss-cross-applesauce over her lower body) as a stranger, hovers over us, peeling back Anabella’s eyelid to exam her eye.

Needless to say, she now hates me.

And…

Mondays. Are. Ugly. And. Painful.

When we finally went to check out at the Doctor’s office (Praise Jesus!), the receptionist, who was smiling—clearly knowing it was us scaring half the metro—states, “we need to see you back in three months.”

Fabulous, I think to myself.

“Do Mondays work good for you?”

I laugh. It sounds manic.  This is when that quip…Too. Soon…heavily applies.

I reply in earnest, “I don’t have my life together on Mondays, just look at my nail polish…let’s try a Thursday.” (Travis is off on Thursdays, he can take one for the team)


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Today was not our day, but we survived and Anabella still loves me, mostly.

Friends, I hope you rocked your Monday, had endless cups of coffee, soft jammies, a good playlist, laughs, and that you felt the love from someone, even if that person was wrapped around you tighter than a straight jacket for the sake of your eyesight. {{hugs to you…and me}} We need those on Monday.

Loves,

—Sarah

Author: Sarah Black

I'm a self-professed 'Drama Mama'...of four daughters, I blog to (over)share my stories on learning to maintain my sanity by strictly eating laughter in the emotional land of motherhood while trying to keep my husband from running away from the sheer amount of estrogen flooding our house.

2 thoughts on “I don’t have my life together on Mondays, just look at my nail polish…”

  1. You just made me feel better!!!! You painted the picture of my baby boy at the dentist…..mortified & not having it! His teeth may rot out🙄

    1. Colby, your pain is my pain and I completely get it. The struggle (at the dentist, doctor, orthodontist–just anywhere). I’ve yet to find the ‘magic’ to transform my children’s fears into instant happiness, but we can’t give up–we are destined for that appointment, the one where they just smile, endure, and then it’s over and you didn’t feel like crying. Praying for us and your baby boys teeth! {hugs mama}

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