I had a horrible day.
Was it horrible compared to most of the people on the planet? Probably not.
What about compared to most of America?
Most of my bad days, thankfully, exist inside my head.
I didn't get enough sleep, because I was up all night worrying. Our handyman had nothing but bad news about the roof, the chimney, the gutters, and the paint. My daughter was utterly atrocious. My son wouldn't sleep. My father won't go to the doctor. My mother went to the doctor, but i'm still worried about her. My grandparents haven't answered my phone calls for three days. Trader Joe's doesn't sell grits, of all things. I can't keep my house clean. My contacts hurt. I can't find the time to color my hair. My daughter wet her pants at the park and spilled the next three things she touched, and she followed *that* up with an encore of a solid hour of temper tantrums. My husband is training, and by the time he gets home, we'll only have 2 hours of watching our favorite TV show's latest season, out today on DVD, before I have to go to sleep in order to function. I can't find jeans that fit, my feet are perpetually calloused, i'm covered in spit-up 24 hours a day, and I forgot to wash the sheets after t.rex exploded on them this morning. I'd like to make about $500 a month but can't figure out how to do that while caring for an infant.
Oh, and my dinner is sitting on the kitchen counter, stone cold, because my meals always come last.
And when I write it all out like that, it's the most laughable, petty, stupid, meaningless, whiny drivel. I mean, i'm embarrassed for myself.
Those aren't complaints.
Those are like flies on a horse's rump. Swat, swat, whatever. This too shall pass.
And yet I feel compelled, some days, to share it. So I can remember it, because I have a frightfully bad memory for negativity. So I can be a better parent tomorrow.
And so maybe someone else will feel that they're not alone in being driven completely batsh*t insane by tiny little nothings.
* * *
After an hour of ferociously crying over such toddler hazards as cup preference, milk consistency, shoe placement, comparable comfiness of pants, correct way of sitting "Indian style", and whether or not I really meant the word "NO", the Biscuit finally collapsed into her bed and began our nightly ritual.
"Tell me about your day," I say.
"YOU tell me about your DATE," she says.
"Well, I rode the turtle train to Rainbow Mountain, where I ate an umbrella made of purple eggs. Then I took a green helicopter over to Alligatorville for some blue milk. They made me the mayor and gave me a muffin!", I say.
"Nooooo," she says.
"You tell me about your day," I say.
"I went to Giggle Giggle," she says.
Giggle Giggle is a place full of toys and friends and cookies, and she goes there every day. Even after a horrible day like today, when she cried as much as she smiled, she remembers going to Giggle Giggle and having a great day.
Today I did everything wrong, but I must be doing something right if my kid spent her day at Giggle Giggle.
I wonder if I can book tickets online. It sounds like a pretty cool place.