Wednesday, November 03, 2010


Here's the thing:

I hate Wednesdays.

I try to be all cool and zen about it. I try to take the day in small chunks. I try to look at it like it's a marathon, not a sprint. But I still hate Wednesdays. And here's why:

1) Greg typically does daycare drop-off four days a week. I pick up five days a week. He has a weekly meeting on Wednesday mornings at 7 a.m., which means I'm in charge that day. I am no fan of drop-off, although (and I say this veeeerrrry quietly, knocking on wood the whole time) it has gotten easier since she moved up to the preschool. Sometimes I have to remind her to hug me goodbye before she runs off to play with her friends. However, even though it has gotten easier, I still hate drop-off. It makes me feel even more rushed on the only morning I absolutely have to be at work by a certain time for a weekly meeting. Sure, I am usually at work a good hour before said meeting, but it still stresses me out. In addition, the whole household has to get up a half hour earlier to make sure we're all out the door when we're supposed to be. Currently, the alarm clock goes off 90 minutes before the sun starts peeking over the horizon.

2) I do daycare pick-up pretty much every day. The reason I hate it on Wednesdays is Jane has dance class at 5. So even though I leave work 15 minutes early, I still have to rush to her daycare, and God forbid she's doing something super-fun like playing in the bouncy room, because if she is, I have to drag her kicking and screaming (I mean this quite literally) out of there to get her to class on time. It's such a time-crunch that I don't even have time to pick up my Parent of the Year award on the way out.

3) When we get to the studio, I have to wrestle her into her tights, leotard and ballet shoes in the bathroom. By the end of this extravaganza I am sweaty and beyond frazzled. If you think I'm kidding, try this activity with your average spastic three-year-old while in a public restroom, trying to make sure she is both clothed and not touching every nasty thing in the room.

4) By the time I get home, I'm kind of a bitch because I'm just exhausted. I thought I was tired being a full-time working mom when I had a baby, but having a preschooler with ACTIVITIES is a whole other ballgame. All I can think about when she is in class is the list of super-fun chores that await me at home: dinner, bathtime, arguing about bedtime, a fit or two (by one or both of us), and collapsing, feeling defeated by another day.

This is a TYPICAL Wednesday. Because of the job I have, Wednesdays can get a whole lot trickier. Once a month I have an early-morning obligation myself, so there is even more rush at the front end, and a few times a year I have additional work obligations on Wednesdays that take me out of the office and all over the place. And when I'm really lucky, it all collides on the same day, like last Wednesday.

I know, I know, I do this to myself. I don't even want to hear it! But this, friends, is why I hate Wednesdays.


Shane said...

When you run as fast as me, a marathon is a sprint.

Wait...did I miss the metaphor?

Dwayne "The Train" said...

I had a prepared a very interesting comment all about the pejorative "bitch" and the dichotomy of it being both a denigrating and an empowering term for females, and how this is all very confusing for us (the "us" in this statement is referring to us men); however, it was far too serious, so I decided to calculate the approximate number of Wednesdays you and I have been alive:

Amanda: 1,937 Wednesdays

Dwayne: 1,585 Wednesdays

I also decided to include Shane since he had the audacity to comment before i did: 1,396 Wednesdays.

The takeaway: you are old.

Debra said...

"a fit or two (by one or both of us)" <-- funny!*

*not when I was living them, but now, with your take.