Who invented Sundays? And why?

For most people without kids, Sundays come with the usual sadness or resignation, as they know that the following morning at eight o’clock they will be selecting peas by size in a factory.

With kids of nursery, preschool or school age, Sundays literally no longer exist. You might as well call them ‘little Mondays’.

In our house, Sunday evenings are my busiest shift. With no coffee or cigarette breaks. Not even a little chat between writing two invoices.

No, Sundays are for sponging and scrubbing. Unless you designate a day for each child when you clean them from head to toe, which is actually a great idea, Sunday evenings are only about bodies. And no, not about my and my hubby’s body. Not even close.

One of them loves his hair being washed, but is terrified that the water might get in his eyes. He also kicks his legs like a windmill because he thinks I can’t cut toenails on flailing legs. The next one also loves her hair being washed, but as she’s not even five years old, drying her hair takes 15 arduous minutes of my time. And then there is number three - I always leave him for last. We dread meeting each other in the bathroom. He hates having his hair washed. I can’t hold him in the bathtub with my arms because he locks himself in a sitting position, with his legs up in the air. I can’t even pour water on him, no matter how much I try to be gentle. He wants to fold herself like our retro East German folding chair, and the result is precisely what he is afraid of: everything ends up in his face and ears.

At the end of the day, by the time all three heads are clean and dry, and sixty(!) nails are cut, their little eyes are finally shutting.
And now, I’ll watch the new season of …. oh, crap, the laundry is still in the washer, since 2 o’clock or so. When finally all the little panties, undies and socks are on the dryer, at least two full episodes have gone. And this is the best-case scenario, believe me. On other occasions, I only realize when going for a pee at night that those dark shadows in the washer are not just the creations of my exhausted mind, but are the very real product of the afternoon cycle, all crumpled and wet.

Shall I put them out on the dryer at night, or shall I sleep?

I ended up throwing them in a basket, so that they will go stinky in there and not in the washer.

Come Monday morning - as sure as hell - I get what I deserve. Yes, we do have fifty-two pairs of panties with princesses on them, but no use, because all of them are in the laundry, dirty, or in the wet and stinky basket.
Look, you’ll wear your bathing suit bottoms for preschool. I know it’s December. No, we are not going to the beach after school, and try to go to the bathroom when the teacher doesn’t see you. If they spot you, just tell them you chose this pink bathing suit bottom with frills over five other pairs of panties your mother tried to make you wear.

And you, you’ll wear your brother’s long johns or your sister’s gray tights with those little white dots under your jeans. Long johns? Come here, I’ll get you a pair of knee-high socks, they’ll match. No, they will not laugh at you. Just tell them your mother wanted the spotted girls tights first.

It doesn’t matter if they are going to school fully clean, with sixty neatly trimmed nails and perfectly styled hair, if two of the three kids look like bums.

The constant dilemma of Monday: normal, but dirty, or clean, but funny? Anyway, who invented Sundays? And why?