Thursdays Are Worse Than Mondays

Thursday. My least favorite day of the week. Thursday is the day I'm reminded of all the things that I needed to get done before the weekend and have either forgotten about or have been trying to put off. Thursday is the day that taunts me with the hope of Friday. Thursday is the day I don't remember to check and see if the trash was taken to the curb until I hear the garbage truck pass my house. This particular Thursday is the day I'm stressing over the fact that I will be spending the weekend at my in-laws house with a couple hundred miles and a state line separating me from the comfort of my own home.

I don't hate my in-laws, we have more of what I suppose is a mutual polite dislike. It's the whole "not good enough for their son" thing, and my beliefs, opinions and choices probably aren't up to their standards either. Oh well. I gave up my hopes well before the marriage certificate was signed, and I still have to admit that I have a better relationship with my mother-in-law than I do with my own mother. One just disapproves of me, the other is toxic.

Back to why I'm stressed out today. I need to pack and since I'm pregnant I have very little appropriate clothing to wear in public (I'm a fan of lounging around the house in my pajamas or the awesome maternity sweat pants I scored for three dollars at Old Navy.) I have even less when you factor in a church service. My "nice" tops are low cut, and my skirt of choice might not be long enough. My kids will be wearing their Easter clothes.
Besides needing to pack I also was hoping to leave my house in a fairly clean state. Last time we went out of town for the weekend my aunt who inconveniently lives next door tried to stage a break-in which led to police breaking in through my back door and walking through the house to check for signs of an intruder. It was right before Christmas and right after my kids celebrated their birthdays (equal to three birthday parties plus a house full of guests) and I had just made several batches of Christmas candy and left the mess in my kitchen. So now every time I leave my house I think about the possibility of policemen walking through it.

I've completely lost my train of thought thanks to the constant "mom...mom...mom...mom..." I am hearing from my four year old. He's currently sat in front of the TV playing the Playstation and he has asked me three times now in the last minute, "Mom, what'd the pig say mom?" For children who have absolutely no idea what a record is they have grasped the concept of sounding like broken ones very well.