Mondays.

This past Monday was particularly challenging for some reason. Now that it's Thursday, the exact cause escapes me... but I'm sure it was a doozy. Somewhere along the lines of no one taking a nap, kids battling it out all day long, children ignoring the chore chart (and me) entirely. Actually, that sounds a bit like every day, come to think of it.

Anyway, Tim came home from work and I was a notch above frazzled instead of the lovely, attentive, super-pleased-to-be-a-homemaker wife that I usually am. And, as it turns out, instead of stepping in and rescuing the kids from their mother, he jumped right on in and joined the festivities. Frustration was oozing out of the walls, I tell you.

We went to bed that night and I, somewhat recovered from the day (the kids were sound asleep, of course), remarked that I would rather he not be quite so understanding when I have reached my limits with the kids. Heck, someone needs to think they're adorable. And then I remembered all the times I've blown up at him for making me look like chopped liver when he comes home and plays with the girls while I stew over the distresses of the day. Poor husbands, they can't win.

So then, today one of my friends told me that on Tuesday she had stepped on and killed the family kitten with her eight children as witnesses. Eh, maybe my Monday wasn't so traumatic.