Probably it breaks some obscure grammatical rule to say it. Attaching a modifier like "very" to a word that by definition claims to be middle of the road is contraindicated. Or just sloppy. You can be extremely slow, as in the speed of a sloth, or especially tall, like many basketball players. A meal can be exceptionally savory, and cymbals can be ear splittingly loud. But "very ordinary" just doesn't fly. 

Still it is the phrase that rattles in my brain when I look back on another week of my routine. The activities fall neatly in the middle, in terms of what I expected and how things played out. Certainly my days are less dramatic than the characters I read about in the novels that capture my attention. My scrapes with calamity are muted as compared with the events on action shows I sometimes watch while handsewing. 

I find solace in the bible. Military conflicts aside, there are plenty of years when the Children of Israel just ambled along. In the morning the mothers and children went out to gather manna, a staple of their diet that appeared each morning in the dew. Presumably there were babies to bathe in a bucket, and clothes to mend. There are no passages about teachers, or lessons, but it seems likely that mothers taught their precious children the tasks of life in the desert, and oral traditions. But these pastimes were plain enough to escape description. 

Much like mine. 

I do not mean to minimize the wondrous blessings that fall into my path, like manna. Every day, if I go out and look for them.  There are Johnny Jump Ups and forsythia that add color to my yard, and newsy letters from my European daughters to read and read again. The children who come to sew are their own brand of miracles, as they pull dormant fabric off the shelves and turn it into pajamas.  

It occurs to me that maybe ordinary is not broken, or inadequate. It is just a comfortable pace.