“I still love you!” I yell out of the window of my silver mini SUV. My four year old daughter turns and looks at me with the brightest smile I have seen all morning. With a hop in her step she takes her teacher’s hand and enters the door of her preschool.
It was a bad morning.
We went through whining, refusing to get dressed, more whining, crying and telling me she was standing up when she was not–the first time I have heard her knowingly lie. I drew a firm line and stuck to it until I realized that unless I increased the rate of movement there was no possible way to get her to school and get to my workout class. I could not live without my workout class. I lost it and started yelling.
It was a bad week.
Have you ever had shit in your living room? Not the proverbial kind that “happens,” but the kind that erupts from underground pipes covering your bathroom, pantry and sky blue wool living room rug with scented clumps in varying shades of coffee, tan and russet floating in a delicious chartreuse sauce of God knows what.