Thursday, February 7, 2013

I'm almost every character on Downton Abbey

{image via pinterest}

I, like most of you, am thoroughly enjoying the third season of Downton Abbey this winter.  When nothing so grand is on the television during these bleak cold months, it is like a soothing cup of hot tea to have a spectacular hour of Downton to enjoy each week.

And this week, during in the wake of Sybil's shocking demise and Bates hopeful release from prison, I realized the reason us American women of the 21st century feel so completely stretched to our breaking point every single day;  it's because we live almost every single roll of all the characters on Downton Abbey at once!  Think about it for a minute (if you have one to spare)-

I, obviously, am Lady Cora Grantham - mistress of the house.

I'm also Lady Mary- first born daughter of the house of Lord Grantham (in my case, Lord Matthews).

And, (this is the exhausting part) I'm also Carson (the butler- who do you think opens the doors around this house),  Ms. Hughes (the housekeeper- a big time suck), O'Brien (Cora's lady maid- I get my own self dressed you guys!, plus this is were my mean streak fits in),  Thomas (the footman- I'm serving up dinner each night), Ms. Patmore (the head cook- no surprise here), Daisy (the kitchen maid- who cleans up the kitchen?  Sadly, I do.  My kids haven't quite figured out you have to wipe down the counters for the crumbs to go away), Mr. Taylor (the chauffeur), the entire gardening team and the handyman.

It is exhausting!  Every time they show one of the ladies of the house being served breakfast in bed, I stand up and demand we implement that policy in our house.  And, then after my little outburst is over, I sit down and remember my other jobs that get in the way (waking the youngest two kids up at 6:30 am, shuttling everyone, even Wes, downstairs by 6:35 am for family prayers before the oldest two head off to seminary, make Spencer's breakfast and serving it, reminding Alice to put her lunch in her backpack, picking out Spencer's clothes and forcing him to get dressed, overseeing Spencer pack his lunch, brushing his teeth, putting on his shoes and heading out the door.  When and how could I fit in a leisurely breakfast in bed each morning?  And, who's going to make it for me?

I guess I'll have to settle for a self-made cup of hot cocoa on the couch after the mad dash of the morning has scurried off out the front door.  Oh the life of leisure those ladies from British aristocracy had!  I could so adapt.

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