Tag Archives: bad day

Where is the Reset Button?

Today was a day of depravity, discipline, destruction and tears. Right now, I want to eat a pound of chocolate, drink a liter of Diet Coke and sit in a hot bath, immersed in a fictional world for which I bear no responsibility, until my feet turn pruney, then curl up in bed and go to sleep. I can’t do any of that, because I have nary an ounce of chocolate, nor a drop of Diet Coke and I must do my best to undo some of the destruction of the day (including, but not limited to, major surgery on the Hulk).

Therefore, with your leave, tomorrow I will post the fifth installment of the Mommy Guilt series.

Thank you for your patience (and possible empathy).


Let’s Bust this Block Wide Open

Of all the days to set my mind to posting a blog post – any blog post – I had to set it for today. Today we had runny noses and sore throats all around, an ear infection in the snickerdoodle and mid-morning vomiting from the cheesedoodle. When I remarked on my glorious Monday to the facebooks, they responded with sympathy and one (Anna) brought me dinner. It was beef stew and really good, really fresh bread and chocolate cake. Comfort food.

And a bottle of Chianti for a mama after a hard day. I don’t write that because one should break a two week writer’s block with a controversy. I write it because it broke my writer’s block by bringing to mind a conversation I had with my mackerdoodle a few weeks ago.

We were hanging out in the kitchen, which happens a lot in our place, and out of the blue, which also happens a lot, the mackerdoodle pipes up with the statement something like, “Only Jesus and Noah never sinned.”

Um. No. After I assured her that Jesus was the only one to ever live a sinless life, she countered with, “But Noah always obeyed and he built the ark when God said to and didn’t ask questions. When did he sin.” She paused, and then said, “when did the BIBLE say he sinned?” Clever girl.

So I told her the story of Noah getting drunk and making a bad decision. It involved a discussion about what alcohol can do to an adult if we drink too much of it, and she listened very carefully. When I ran out of words, which doesn’t actually happen often around my mackerdoodle, she chimed in:

“So it’s sort of like when I eat too much candy, and I act really silly and I don’t like it, and then I feel sick.”

I said yes. It was sort of like that.

“But one candy is good and doesn’t make me silly. Or sick.”

Again, I could only agree.

“And you wouldn’t feed me that whole bowl of tootsie pops for lunch.” she said, gesturing to a green glass bowl full (I am embarrassed to write) of tootsie pops. I emphatically assured her (and you, my readers) that I would never even contemplate such an act. When I was telling this story to my sister she added, “Just as I would never feed your father a bowl of vodka for lunch.” That made me laugh.

But there you have it, folks. the lesson of moderation from my mackerdoodle. The reason I’m not embarrassed, or ashamed to tell you that one of the pastor’s wives from my church brought me both food and a truly lovely Chianti at the close of a tough day. And that I enjoyed all of it at the end of the day I had.

Now, having broken my block (I hope) I am about to retire to my bed because (a) my girls alternating between congestion related insomnia last night resulted in a lack of sleep on my part and (b) while I have been writing this, my head has slowly filled up with a suspicious congestion, my throat is hurting and my nose has begun to imitate a really old faucet with broken washers.

I hope you’ll hear from me again soon. This has been fun. I’ve missed you.


************I just re-read this. I didn’t drink the entire bottle of wine. By all of it, I meant some of the food, and some of the wine. Yeesh. Maybe I need to go back to writer’s block. **********************************

When Life Hands You Lemons . . .

Some times you get to the end of the day and think, “Oh. Wow. That wasn’t how I thought that was going to go.”

Sometimes it’s something good, like an unexpected call from a dear friend, or the discovery of a new friend, or finding money in a pair of old jeans, or finding that a pair of old jeans fit you again.

Sometimes it’s not.

Today it’s not.

I won’t go into the details, because the details themselves aren’t really the point. It’s more the cumulative affect of me coming to 5:30 this evening and realizing that everything I had set out to accomplish today had gone wrong in some way. I was eventually able to achieve all but one of my tasks for the day, and none of the problems I encountered were as a natural consequence of poor choices or decisions on my part.


Everything I touched seem to turn to excrement.

I had a choice.

I could sit down on the couch and cry and tell my kids to go away somewhere.

Or I could embrace the direction the day had taken and vow to try again tomorrow.

“No baths tonight!” I announced. “Who wants a second dessert?” There may have been a minor sonic boom, because the cheesedoodle’s hand shot up at close to the speed of sound. “Who wants to sleep in their clothes?” was the next question and surprisingly both kids pointed at me, laughing at the suddenly fun mama who had erupted into their lives. We still brushed teeth, because, honestly, I’m still a mama, but we had two bed time stories a piece. I carried each of them to their beds. We sat and talked before we did our prayers and even when the mackerdoodle called me back to her bed thirteen times after lights out (I counted) it really didn’t matter, because I had just given in to the day.

I feel better now and I’ve learned a valuable lesson. When life gives me lemons, sometimes I need to quit trying so hard to make lemonade. In the scheme of things, lemons themselves aren’t so bad.

He Had a Bad Day . . .

So my poor cheesedoodle is at that awkward toddler boy stage: he believes that because he can do something, he should do something, but his size and his ever developing motor skills mean he can’t do what he thinks he can do.  This, combined with his slightly volatile personality made for a difficult day on Tuesday, poor kid.

It all began in the late afternoon.  Both doodles were playing happily together.  The mackerdoodle was  tearing some junk mail I had given her into pieces, and the cheesedoodle was stuffing the confetti into three different containers: a wooden box, a purse from the dress-up box and a small, but heavy, pottery jar.  Soon stuffing litter with his little fingers seemed ineffective, so he grabbed one of Jonathan’s paint brushes and began to push the paper down into the pottery jar.  This was  great fun, and also made a neat sound as the jar jiggled against the table.  It was all fun and games until the jar jiggled its way off the table and onto the cheesedoodle’s toe.

He cried.  He brought his toe over to mama to be kissed.  He snuggled and milked the sympathy and then, suddenly, he was so over it and on to the next thing.  He scampered off to the play room with his sister and hadn’t been gone from my sight more than 20 seconds before I heard a scream.  This was not an “I want that that toy” scream, or even a “I bumped my head” scream.  I leaped up and got into the play room to see what was the matter.

Do you remember the chifferobe that my mother-in-law painstakingly restored for the mackerdoodle before she was born?  (If not, click that sentence)  It’s still one of my favorite pieces of furniture and it is in the play room right now.  The cheesedoodle has a passion for closing doors, and he had walked into the toy room, directly over to the chifferobe and closed the door – with his left pinky finger wrapped around the hinge side of the door.  He had closed it with force, because he never does anything in halves, and was holding the door closed with his right hand, while trying to extract his compressed pinky from the closed door.

His tiny finger tip (which will seem huge when the snickerdoodle arrives) looked like an acme cement truck had run over it in a cartoon.  It was completely flat.  As I carried him to the kitchen to get ice for it, I watched it slowly pop back out to its normal shape.  There were angry gashes on the front and back of the finger, and I was expecting a flood of blood as soon as the compression had eased.

Have you ever tried applying ice to a 19 month old pinky finger?  Not so easy.  I ended up filling a cup with ice water and sticking his entire hand in, but even that only lasted seconds.  He was still crying in pain and would periodically press the offending digit to my mouth, hoping for a magic kiss.  The action of offering it for kiss, however, was exceedingly painful, and would send him into new waves of painful screams.  I fear it was the first disillusionment in his short life – sometimes mama’s kisses don’t make the pain go away.

Finally, I was able to numb the pain enough to get him settled down with a binky and I turned on the TV to let him recover.  Remarkably, the finger never did bleed, and didn’t swell.  The next morning it was a little red, but not bruised, and the gashes were pale white lines.

We ate supper and went through our bedtime routine (no bath for the cheesedoodle, because I was still watching that finger) and by normal bedtime, what with his eventful afternoon, the cheesedoodle was tired.  All through bedtime stories he was rolling around on my bed, trying to snuggle up to me, only succeeding in headbutting varying parts of my anatomy.  The headbutt is the cheesedoodle’s expression of exhaustion, and after he made contact with my nose, I cut story time short and declared night-night time.  The mackerdoodle was tucked safe in her bed but the cheesedoodle was still restless with adrenaline and discomfort and general exhaustion.  I went into his room to tell him to lie down on his pillow and go to sleep.  He reared back in full headbutt move, and flung himself toward his pillow – as full a force as his 21 pounds will allow – head first.  He missed his pillow and drove himself full on into the metal frame of his bed.

It was just a bad day.  I suspect it won’t be his last.