The Foorce

Since we returned from April’s break, Mondays have remained a rough spot in the weekly schedule. It’s almost like Monday’s bustle slaps James in the face, leaving him sensitive, dazed and grumpy.

James is in italics, my responses are in bold.

(James grumbling at Margaret in the next room)

Stop it. Right. Now.

What’s going on? (walking into dining room)

Ugh. (Dramatically drops head into hands at the table)

What is it?

This is insanely inappropriate.

Excuse me?

Mom, she’s still looking at me.

What?

Margaret is staring at me.

Is she doing anything else?

She’s staring right at me!

Maybe because you are making loud unhappy noises while she is eating. It’s okay for people to look at you, James. Margaret eat your cereal please.

Yeah, stop looking over here.

Hey, stop it. She’s not touching you or talking to you. It’s okay.

No, it’s insanely inappropriate.

Give me a break. If you don’t like it go to your room and read by yourself.

(shaking his head in disgust, muttering) Just insane.

Eventually James shoves back his chair, stomps off to his room and slams the door. Margaret continues to eat cereal, looking at me to gauge whether or not she’s in trouble. I return to the kitchen.)

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Monday has been smacking me around a bit these days, too.