I woke up this morning with bad hair and a stiff neck. The kids were demanding all sorts of things before I even got near the coffee pot. I looked out the window and saw the grey clouds still hadn’t dispersed. And still no new growth on the grass seed I’d planted weeks ago so I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
My wallet had been lost and/or stolen the day before. I had put in a call to the place where I thought I’d left it. Still no word. And now I can’t get my car registered because I don’t have my license. And I don’t think I can get my new license without my old license. And of course I can’t drive anywhere without it. And I’d love to go shopping and buy some chocolate because I really need some, but I can’t without my bank card. That’s gone too. I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
In the afternoon, after the kids’ nap, I decide to drive over to the place I think I left my wallet. I can’t find anyone to talk to. All the offices are locked up and no one is answering the doors. I ask a lady for directions and I realize she’s not quite right in the head and she starts yelling at me about why women shouldn’t wear red pants and something about enemas. She won’t let me get away and I’m trying to be polite. I feel badly for her, but I still feel badly for me. I realize I’m never going to find my wallet and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
I think I’ll move to Australia. Or the Southern coast of Spain.
We get home and as I’m carrying Sofia up the steps I trip on the stupid door mat that I’ve tripped on twice before, and should have thrown away then, but was too lazy. I come crashing down on the concrete mud room floor and I’m trying to get my hands on the back of Sofia’s head so she won’t hit it on the floor and as I stumble, I scrape the whole length of my shin against the bottom frame of the doorway. I start bawling in pain and the kids are freaked out. I check Sofia for bumps, but she’s fine. I limp to the freezer for some ice and it was very clear that it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Later on, before Daddy comes home and makes us all dinner, David asks me what’s wrong and why I seem so unhappy. I tell him I’m having a really bad day. “Some days are like that” I tell him. Even for moms in Australia.
But I think pretty much every day is good in Southern coastal Spain.