“It’s Sunday,” My Darling B informed me after I shut off my bleeping alarm clock this morning.

I paused from rolling out of bed, turned back to her and, not sure that I heard her correctly, asked, “What?”

“It’s Sunday,” she repeated.

Oh, what a sad, sad way to start the week. I put a hand on her shoulder and broke the news: “No, sorry, it’s not.”

There was a short pause before she finally sobbed, “I don’t want to go to work.”

Poor thing. What that girl needs is a month of Sundays.