Call Me Garfield and Pass the Lasagna

Some days, I am the anti-Stuart Smalley.

I am not good enough, smart enough and I am pretty damn sure that no one even considers liking me. They are avoiding me like a stinky fat kid in a cafeteria line. Either that or they are quietly plotting my demise.

This typically strikes on Monday mornings.

Mondays bring with them a reflection of all the things on my to do list that were not completed.

Those unchecked boxes (or unpacked boxes if we’re talking about the state of my house) leave me to begin listing the other places where I’m lacking.

I’m still drinking too much Diet Pepsi.

I’m still not eating quite healthy enough.

That last load of laundry is still not folded.

Ultimately, I’m still not Heidi Klum.

For real people, that woman has about 14 kids that she’s birthed herself while looking like Aphrodite herself and still manages to host a TV show, model for Victoria’s Secret, create her own line of active wear and coordinate a White Trash vow renewal for herself and her husband.

Who can compete with that?

My attempts to beat Klum at her own game are gymnastic. I stretch and flip burgers at the same time while keeping Wild Thing away from the open flames. I launch garbage bags into bins with Wild Thing on my hip. I hand the baby a sippy cup while picking up the mail he scattered on the floor and remember to sort fling the bills into my purse to be addressed later.

All these gymnastics leave me with is a pulled muscle and food that continues to sprinkle the floor. No one can truly explain how messy toddlers eat until you’ve had one in the house without a dog around to hoover that mess up.

David cleans the floors by the way. He does a great job of it. About 8 times a day. I’m so not joking.

Monday mornings leave me dazed, looking around to find where all that energy went.