Monday

It’s pretty much useless, I tell myself every Monday afternoon. The scene is always the same: I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror at my place of employment. It’s about half an hour before I’m scheduled to be relieved by Kai and Amélie’s mama, and I’m a mess.

I just don’t get it. Sure, there are those mornings where I fall out of bed and straight onto my bicycle, crashing into a cup of coffee and a pair of puffy-eye-hiding sunglasses along the way, but on an average day I show up for work wearing a dress. I’ve taken a bath; my hair is dry and pulled up off my neck. I’m wearing a bit of powder on my face, maybe mascara if I’m feeling daring or am eager for a compliment on my eyelashes from Amélie, and I’ve daubed a bit of perfume on my wrists and behind my ears. I’m put together.

And yet I find myself in front of that damn bathroom mirror, Monday after Monday.

Monday is our non-pool day. Kai and Amélie have gymnastics in the evening, so we find other, less energy-expensive ways to amuse ourselves. The mirror situation doesn’t repeat itself on pool days because the house has a newly renovated bathroom whose shower is the size of a walk-in closet, with multiple showerheads and a steam maker. We take full advantage and I always go home clean and relaxed on pool days.

But on Mondays, there is the mirror. 

I see that my hair is determinedly breaking free into wild waves around my face and refuses to stay when I sweep it behind my ears. A couple of times per week I pick out a bit of glue or food – something that worked it’s way onto Amélie’s thumb while she was sucking it and from there, into my hair, which she has the habit of twiddling when I read to her and Kai.

There are stains on my clothes, which could be any number of things. The most common offenders are marker and peanut butter.

My deodorant has worn off and been replaced by another odor altogether. There really is nothing to be done about this, and it’s to be expected, but every time I catch a whiff of myself I am frustrated for not having a separate stick to keep in my bag.

Regardless of how well I’ve slept the night before, I have dark circles around my eyes, and there is a certain sheen to my skin that wasn’t there in the morning.

In short, it’s nothing that hand lotion and the stick of lip balm, the only two cosmetics I keep in my bag, can fix.

I’m not quite sure why I find it so surprising that I should look so disheveled after a day of digging in the dirt with a stick, coloring, holding kittens, pulling the kids behind my bicycle, sweating in the summer sun and walking barefoot.

The moment when I look in the mirror and assure myself that it’s nothing a bath and a nap won’t fix, knowing well that I rarely have time for either, must be the most definitive moment of my daily mental switchover from acting like a kid to acting like a grown-up. All day I’ve been happy to get dirty, and suddenly I’m complaining about it?

Conversely, despite the fact that I adore my job, by the end of most days I’m just relieved that I get to go home and be my parents’ child, rather than a parent figure to Kai and Amélie. This must be the manifestation of the fact that I’m definitely not ready for kids of my own.