Some Days...

Tell the boy he doesn't have to eat breakfast if he doesn't want to. Listen to the boy whine about everything because he's hungry but doesn't want to say so. Encourage him to at least eat some strawberries. Keep him from drying up the city of Dover while he's washing the strawberries. Tell him he needs to get pants on because we're going outside. Argue with him off and on for twenty minutes about putting those pants on and cleaning up his trucks. Waste ten or fifteen minutes trying to send an encouraging email to a troubled friend because the internet isn't working.  Answer the door while the boy is still not wearing any pants. Let the boy wear plaid shorts that clash with his shirt and striped socks that would clash with pretty much anything. Learn that the AC repairmen are going to arrive in 20 minutes and scrap all plans of going outside any time soon. Vacuum the floor and close all doors to the messier rooms. Set the repairmen to work and then wash dishes so they don't think it's always this big of a disaster. Spend fifteen minutes folding one load of laundry because the boy is 'helping'. Keep the boy from drying up Camden's water reserves when he's 'washing' the strawberry bowl. Answer a call from sick friend while fending off the child. Read books with the boy. Answer the door again, this time to a stranger. Clean up the Jello the boy spilled in the fridge at some point during the morning.  Work outside in the yard until the sun gets to me and it's time for lunch. Help the boy cook himself an egg. Clean up the third of an egg that somehow ended up on the stove and floor. Eat lunch together. Decide that the boy has been uncooperative enough (lots of little things) that he doesn't get a trip to the park. Let him earn the possibility of a trip back by putting things away after lunch. Have a problem with him getting into the magazines at the grocery and skip the trip to the park. Suffer a mild injury to my upper arm when the boy's elbow goes between the muscles during cuddle time. It's an accident, but so painful that between that and the added frustrations of the day, I have a crying fest. The crying fest is cut short by someone at the door. It's the Verizon man, an hour before he's supposed to arrive. Sop up my tears and let him in. Call the husband home to talk to him because I don't know what the heck is going on with the internet anyway. Deal with boy, Verizon, and phone calls for an hour until I abandon them all and take a nap. The rest of the day goes more or less normally, aside from the boy crying because he lost movie privileges. Clean up more Jello, this time in the fridge and on the floor. Play cards with him. Get a phone-tree notification at 8:45pm, and decide that I could get a couple of my calls in before 9pm even though Jonathan is already busy on another call and I know the boy will drive me crazy. Make calls while being made crazy. Watch as the boy dances on his collapse-able stool while grabbing my arm and somehow collapses it under himself. Hang up on friend and pray the boy's lung hasn't collapsed as well. Breathe a sigh of relief when he starts breathing on his own and doesn't have to be ventilated. Get him ready for bed and clean up the mess he made in his room while not watching a movie. Congratulate myself when he falls to sleep almost instantly, probably because he's exhausted from spending so much of the day with his hands over his head, which is our 'active' version of time out, since the last thing he needs is to build up more energy by sitting still.

 I feel bad for anyone who actually read this, but I feel much better after spilling it all out onto virtual paper. When compared to friends who are struggling with cancer, divorce, unemployment, and depression, my bad day is nothing, and I know it. But it's MY bad day, and I still need to get past it so I can start over tomorrow. Then I can get started on that insurance application. Won't that be fun.