Why Does Monday Hate Me?
Let’s set the stage: Monday, 7:26 AM. The house smells like dubious banana bread and defeat. I’m two cold sips into a coffee that supposedly makes me a better person, which—spoiler—doesn’t work. My kid careens down the hallway in full 90s cartoon panic, shrieking, “WHERE ARE MY SOCKS!” as if the answer will unlock the universe. We have five minutes before we’re officially late. Spoons are missing. Shoes are playing hide-and-seek. And somewhere, a dog is eating what looks suspiciously like a Barbie leg.
This Wasn’t About Socks. Not Really.
I can usually handle a missing sock. Usually. But this wasn’t one sock. This was the last clean pair of socks left in all of civilization—or at least our house, which, let’s be honest, is its own special post-apocalyptic zone. I’m muttering about sock goblins and laundry curses while my kid weeps as if their toes are about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. The clock ticks. My brain: Why am I sweating through my shirt at 7:32?
It hit harder because this wasn’t really about the socks. It was about Every. Damn. Thing. The school forms I forgot to sign. The costume for some colonial day I never lived through. The appointment I’ll reschedule for the third time because, surprise, no appointment fairy showed up. The endless pile of things to wash, remember, check, clean. Socks were just the last Jenga piece before the whole mental tower collapsed. Burnout isn’t about big disasters, it’s about being pummeled by a thousand mini bullshit storms at once. Monday just loves to pile them up.
The Secret Weapon: The Oh-Fuck-It Drawer
Once I stopped hyperventilating over the existential meaning of foot coverings, I did something small. Annoyingly small, but dude, game changer: I made an “Oh-Fuck-It Drawer”. A shallow bin stuffed with whatever basics my kid needs and loses regularly—socks (cheap, all the same color), hair ties, bandaids, backup permission slips, and gum (for emotional emergencies). It’s the panic station. When chaos erupts, I swipe the drawer open, and—bam—problem solved, or least delayed. Less panicked bellowing, less sobbing about missing laundry, more chance I can actually finish drinking that disgusting microwave coffee.
You’re Not Failing, You’re Just Drowning
Look, there’s no medal for surviving Monday. No one’s coming to hand you a gold star for not losing your shit over a sock. But having one tiny plan for the routine disasters? That’s a level-up. The socks will still vanish, the school will still expect magic, but at least you get one less excuse to start the day crying into your cup.
This is why I hide backup stuff all over the damn house. It keeps me just one meltdown away from a new kind of chaos—but at least it’s manageable.
The Potty Mouth Panda 