The first day of the week was not my cup
Of tea, before. Monday meant school, bullies,
And the end of sleeping in on weekends.
Now I take the day for me, rarely work.
This child of Monday is average of face,
Though quick with a pen, and quick to anger.
Monday’s child isn’t always on the ball:
Forgets the big stuff, and sweats all the small.
Mondays are not the chore they were, before;
A day can be a day without worry.
Perhaps Monday’s child can borrow grace from
Tuesday while she goes through the working week.
© Bridget Noonan, 2011.
In case you were wondering, the whole Monday’s child thing came from this poem. It’s super old, but it’s interesting that people think that they’ll fit into these quaint little boxes.
Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go.
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But the child born on the Sabbath day
Is fair and wise and good in every way.