Holy smokaroonies. Today was one of those days.
When I describe it, it will sound inconsequential. In the bigger scheme of things it IS highly and almost entirely inconsequential.
Except that it goes to show that just when you think that your brain should turn into jelly and melt out of your ears....when by all rights you should spontaneously combust with sheer blank-minded exhaustion...that bizarrely you don't. And you somehow, somehow keep on going.
The not particulary dramatic items contributing to my near spontaneous combustion were:
1) a bilious session hugging my big white flushing friend, shortly followed by:
2) an hour long. HOUR LONG. tantrum from my darling cutie pie of a daughter whom I love and cherish with the fire of a thousand tigers. (what? tigers are fiery...give me a break).
Have you ever listened to crying/screaming from a wee child? Three minutes is enough to shatter most people's nerves. Ten minutes is an eternity. ONE HOUR and I felt like someone had wrung me out and hung me on a washing line by my eyelids. Except that sounds quite relaxing in comparison.
Now of course I am deeply empathetic for my daughter's frustration. Clearly I started the whole thing off by throwing the beach ball UP the stairs, when EVIDENTLY to all rational people the point was to throw it DOWN the stairs. A point that Honour made with instant (just add water) hysteria.
But it just didn't stop. To the point where I thought maybe she had mysteriously injured herself while I wasn't looking. Except that I had been looking the entire time. (A child exploding with grievous emotional injury from a 'beachball incident' is quite transfixing I can assure you).
I gave cuddles. I clucked. I cooed. I left her alone. I read her a story. I offered tasty treats. Water. Witty comments.
But no, all were spurned in favour of lying on the floor on her face and screaming.
In the end I bundled her in the car in the rain in a 'who-cares-about-the-rain- we-have-to-get-out-of-here-and-find-some-fresh-air-to-run-about-in, so-help-me-God-before-my-head-starts-rotating-on my-shoulders-and-I-start-screaming "Please-let-me-go-back-to-a-normal-job -with lower-stress-levels - like perhaps bomb disposal or negotiating with terrorists."
And this was the point at which I discovered my raincoat in the garage.
3) with a pool of warm, yellow cat urine nestled amongst its raincoaty folds.
Yes, it was WARM. I could tell this when I mopped it up. So Harley had just proffered his metaphor for my afternoon, just moments before.
Well said, Harley, well said.