Mondays Hurt

“You shouldn’t live your life for the weekends”, they say.

But right now, I do.

When I arrive at my office on Monday mornings, a giant void fills me and I’m already counting the hours to 4pm.

It’s not because I hate my job. It’s not because my nights and weekends are filled with spontaneity and exciting travel. It’s because I just finished up two straight days of the greatest natural high life has to offer—hanging with my baby girl.

The sparkle in her silvertone eyes and the sound of her laughter fills me with a kind of delight I never could have imagined existed before her. Every flirty, two-toothed smile, every squeak and shriek of her tiny voice and touch of her soft hands is like a shot of dopamine directly to my heart. Raining out? Don’t care. Cloudy, chilly day? Doesn’t matter. I have all the sunshine I need wrapped up in one, 17 pound package.

But then, Monday. The unwelcome party pooper throws me into a cold shower, sobering me back into the reality that I must work to make sure my bundle of joy stays joyful. Daycare drop-off is just the beginning of a severe, week-long withdrawal, only slightly lessened by a few fleeting weeknight hours together.

Yep. I’m addicted to my daughter. Literally, obsessed. With her chipmunk cheeks. With her chubby rolls. With every choppy but purposeful movement she makes. With reveling in her every milestone. With her perpetual cheer and ceaseless resilience.

I can’t get enough.

And so, for what my Saturdays and Sundays have to offer me, I’m OK with living for the weekends.