Milo and the Monday Problem

Milo Torres was seven years old, and he had opinions about everything.

He had opinions about breakfast. ("Pancakes should be round. Not square. Square pancakes are just flat waffles, and that's lying.")

He had opinions about socks. ("The seam should never, ever touch your toes. I'd rather go barefoot. I'd rather go bare-everything.")

He had opinions about the way his mom sang in the car. ("You're doing great, Mom. But also, please stop.")

But of all the things Milo had opinions about — and the list was long, because he kept an actual list in a green notebook — nothing bothered him more than Mondays.

Mondays were the worst.

On Mondays, the weekend was over. On Mondays, his backpack felt heavier. On Mondays, even the sun seemed annoyed about showing up. And on this particular Monday morning, Milo Torres had had enough.

"I'm not going," he announced at breakfast, his arms crossed tight across his dinosaur pajamas.

His dad raised an eyebrow. "You're not going to school?"

"I'm not going to Monday," Milo corrected. "School is fine. Monday is the problem."

His older sister, Elena, who was ten and thought she knew everything (she did not), snorted into her orange juice. "You can't just skip a day of the week, Milo."

"Watch me."

But Milo was no ordinary complainer. Milo was a planner. So instead of throwing a fit or hiding under his bed — which he had tried last Monday, and which had not worked because his dad found him in eleven seconds — Milo opened his green notebook and began to write.

At the top of the page, in his very best handwriting, he wrote:

FORMAL PROPOSAL TO FIX MONDAYS By Milo Torres, Age 7 Very Serious. Please Read.

During the bus ride to school, Milo worked on Section One.

"The Problem," he wrote. "Monday comes every single week. Nobody asked for this. I did a survey. Nine people in my class said Monday is their least favorite day. Two people said Tuesday, but I think they were confused."

He tapped his pencil against his chin.

"My proposal: We remove Monday from the week. We go straight from Sunday to Tuesday. Everybody wins."

He drew a little calendar with Monday scratched out in red. It looked beautiful. It looked like freedom.

At school, Milo presented his proposal to his best friend, Jordan, during morning recess.

Jordan listened carefully, holding the notebook with both hands like it was a treasure map. Jordan was good at listening. That was why they were best friends.

"This is pretty solid," Jordan said. "But wait. If you get rid of Monday, wouldn't Tuesday just become the new Monday?"

Milo's face went blank.

"Like... Tuesday would be the first day of the week," Jordan continued. "So it would feel exactly like Monday. It would basically be Monday. In a Tuesday costume."

Milo stared at Jordan for a very long time.

"Why would you say that," Milo whispered.

"I'm just thinking out loud!"

But the damage was done. Milo grabbed his notebook back and slumped against the brick wall of the school. Jordan was right. He could feel it in his bones. Removing Monday wouldn't fix anything. The Monday-ness would just move, like a stain you can't scrub out.

He needed a new plan.

Milo spent all of lunch thinking. He thought so hard he forgot to eat his apple slices, which had never happened before in the history of Milo.

By afternoon reading time, he had written Section Two.

"New Proposal," he wrote. "If we cannot remove Monday, we must IMPROVE Monday. Make it so good that nobody dreads it."

Below this, he wrote his ideas:

One. All Monday homework is canceled. Obviously. Two. Pajamas allowed at school on Mondays. Three. Extra recess. Not five minutes extra. THIRTY minutes extra. Four. The cafeteria serves only pizza and chocolate milk. Five. Every classroom gets a dog. Not a hamster. A DOG.

He showed the list to his teacher, Ms. Gupta, who read it with a very serious expression.

"I see you've put a lot of thought into this, Milo," she said.

"I have. I've been thinking about it since I was six."

"That's a whole year of research," Ms. Gupta said, nodding. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"What is it about Monday that really bothers you? Not the idea of Monday. The actual day. What happened today that was so bad?"

Milo opened his mouth. Then he closed it.

He thought about his actual Monday. The real one. Today.

This morning, his dad had made eggs the way Milo liked, with the cheese all melty. On the bus, he'd gotten the window seat. In math, he'd solved a problem before anyone else and Ms. Gupta had said, "Milo, that was sharp." At recess, he and Jordan had played their game where the woodchips were lava and the swings were spaceships. He'd laughed so hard his stomach hurt.

"I guess..." Milo said slowly, "today wasn't that bad?"

"Hmm," said Ms. Gupta, and she handed the notebook back with a small smile.

On the bus ride home, Milo sat with Jordan again. He was quiet for a while, which was unusual for someone with opinions about everything.

"I think the problem isn't actually Monday," Milo finally said.

"Okay," Jordan said.

"I think the problem is Sunday night. That's when I start dreading Monday. I think about all the things that could go wrong. I think about my backpack being heavy and the weekend being over and everything feeling hard. And then Monday shows up and I've already decided it's terrible."

Jordan nodded. "Like you're mad at Monday before it even does anything."

"Yeah! Monday hasn't even had a chance! I'm just sitting there on Sunday being mean to a day that hasn't happened yet!"

Milo flipped to a new page in his notebook. He crossed out FORMAL PROPOSAL TO FIX MONDAYS and thought for a minute. Then he wrote:

FORMAL PROPOSAL TO GIVE MONDAYS A CHANCE By Milo Torres, Age 7 Still Serious. But Also Fair.

Underneath, he wrote:

"Step One: On Sunday night, don't think about Monday like it's a monster. It's just a day. It has hours in it. Some of them might be good.

Step Two: Find one thing to look forward to. Even a small thing. Like a window seat. Or melty cheese. Or the lava game.

Step Three: If Monday is actually bad, complain about it AFTER. At least give it a chance to be bad first before you get mad."

Jordan read it over his shoulder. "I like Step Three. Very fair."

"I'm a fair person," Milo said.

That night at dinner, Milo's dad asked how school was.

"It was Monday," Milo said.

Elena rolled her eyes. "Here we go."

"It was Monday," Milo repeated, "and it was... actually fine. The eggs were good this morning, by the way."

His dad smiled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Extra melty."

Milo pulled out his green notebook and set it beside his plate. It was getting full. Opinions about rain boots (against), opinions about the word moist (very against), opinions about bedtimes (no comment around parents), and now a three-step plan for Mondays.

Elena peeked at the notebook. "You're so weird, Milo."

"Thank you," said Milo. Because that was also an opinion — and he'd decided it was a compliment.

He took a big bite of dinner, flipped to the back of the notebook, and started a new list:

THINGS THAT WERE ACTUALLY GOOD TODAY (MONDAY EDITION)

He wrote until his hand got tired.

It was a surprisingly long list.