This morning was a little rough. Mondays always are. As I gave the twins sugar cookies and juice for breakfast at 7am, I couldn’t help but reflect on the fact I’d woken up with a parenting hangover again and the tragedy of its re-occurrence.

And, before we go any further, for all you guys riled up about giving Butch and Sundance cookies for breakfast, please know they had Lucky Charms, thirty minutes later, thereby evening their sugar-to-sugar ratio for the morning. So chillax, my health conscious amigos. Chillax.

At any rate, I’m hungover. But, like I said before, it’s a parenting hangover, the hallmark of any weekend spent with children, and the only way to differentiate the weekend from a week day.

It all goes down the same way every weekend:

“How you feeling today?”

I sigh. “Not so great.”

Husband nods over the phone. “Me either.”

“Yeah, we shouldn’t have hit the sauce so hard.”

“No kidding. Didn’t you have one whole beer?”

My stomach grumbles. “Oh yeah. I chugged the whole thing in less than an hour. But I’m more worried about that dip.”

“The French Onion?”

“Uh huh. We destroyed that.”

“We did.”

“Can you get any type of plastic poisoning from licking the lid?”

“I don’t think so. I thought about it for a while this morning, and I really think it comes down to staying up past ten o’clock. We just can’t be rebel like that.”

“A clear disregard for responsibility, to be sure.”

“Let’s do it again.”

I nod. “Next weekend?”

“Next weekend.”

So, Monday’s off to a slow start, but as soon as I get over the fact that Saturday saw me eat a pile of sugar cookies the size of a small koala, I’ll be back to workin’ for the weekend.