Okay, okay, it is a blog post, and I am sorry that it has been almost a year since I last posted, but this was seriously the first time in that year that I have felt the need to write, and when you read this post you will ask yourself:
Why did this particular moment merit the lofty recognition of a blog post?
and I would answer:
For no other reason than it made me laugh, and I hope it makes you laugh too.
If you follow me on social media, you are probably aware of the ridiculously frustrating day I had yesterday. It started out with me flooding the kitchen, which caused me to forget to make Leif a lunch for school, which was then followed up by a loaf of bread not properly placed in the bread maker. So when Harriet and I returned home from playgroup, looking forward to some yummy homemade bread to go with the equally delicious soup I had made the night before for our lunch, we discovered that the bread had cooked but the ingredients did not mix, which meant we had some cooked milk and flour congealed at the bottom of a bread pan with the yeast and salt still lying on the top. Not so yummy. Which was all fine and dandy since there was no soup left anyways. Cough . . cough . . . BOYS!
No big deal, though, because we can make nachos, BUT, the boys had also got into the new bag of Tostitos the night before and left them downstairs on the couch, where Scout being the opportunistic puppy that he is and always on the lookout for people snacks, scarfed down the remainder of the bag and was now lying on my couch with a guilty, but very satisfied look on his face even though you could tell he was paying the price for his gluttony. Ugh. Refusing to admit defeat and run headfirst into the ever comforting arms of McDonald's, who I adore but know is so very bad for me but sometimes is required in times of emotional distress, I opened the freezer to see if there was anything I could whip up for lunch and the brand new bag of frozen blueberries, which had been opened and not properly closed by you guessed it . . . The Boys . . . leapt out at me and poured all over the floor, where Kingston, who had not been fed yet because of the early morning flood . . . sorry pup . . . and who missed out on the Tostito binge earlier, eagerly ran around the kitchen trying to beat Harriet to the frozen, purple treats that seemed to be raining down upon them from the heavens like manna.
Thankfully, the day did eventually got better and, by 11pm, I was finally able to drag my worn-out, way-too-old-for-all-this-craziness body to bed and crash.
Oh, and can I just mention here that I am on week 2 of being the lone parent of this operation because Mr. Level-Headed is out conquering the North one spreadsheet at a time. Just saying. We all have our super powers: his happens to be numbers and mine is attracting shenanigans.
So, this morning when I opened my eyes, I was relieved and excited for the brand new start. I felt optimistic and energetic:
Today is going to be a great day!
at which point I wish I had heard the Universe giggling and teehee-ing because I might have decided to go back to bed.
By 8:30am, the kids were dressed, lunches were made, a new loaf of bread sat on the counter, the homework that did not get looked at the night before was finished, and I gave myself a congratulatory pat on the back:
Girl, you are truly a wonder woman.
As I put on Leif's winter coat, Harriet tore out of the room:
I have to poop!
No big deal: we have lots of time!
When she was finished, I went in to help Harriet clean up. I took the potty and dumped the goods into the toilet. Thanks to all those blueberries the previous afternoon, it was still a bit messy, so I filled the potty with water from the sink, and as I traveled back to the toilet to dispose of it, Harriet popped up off the floor at that very moment and hit my hand holding the potty filled with poop soup, sending the contents flying . . . all over her head, all over my pants and all over the wall.
Seriously. I do not make this stuff up.
Harriet looked at me in horror. I quickly picked her up, ran to the shower, stripped off her dirty clothes, threw her in the shower, and scrubbed her down, all the while thinking to myself:
Yeah, this seems about right.
Oh. My. Land
The whole incident happened very quickly, and even as I write this it occurs to me that I still need to clean up the bathroom . . .ooops.
But anyhoo . .
After the quickest shower of her life, my poor baby stood in my bedroom, looking like a traumatized, drowned rat, sobbing over the horror of the entire situation and completely distressed that her dinosaur shirt was now ruined. As she stood there, in a thread-bare towel that is usually reserved as a rag because all the other towels were used up yesterday in the flood and are lying in a huge, albeit clean, pile on the laundry room floor, I burst out laughing. Not because she was funny to look at but, to be honest, she was rather pathetic looking at the moment, but because I love her so much, and I absolutely love this ridiculous life of mine so much, and I had to laugh because there is far too much to cry about and laughing felt like a small victory. Once I started laughing, she started laughing and was then eager to share the story with her preschool teacher at drop-off. Phew!
Now, please do not walk away from this post thinking Krista is some magical woman who joyfully laughs her way through every moment of life and does not allow anything to bother her because that is not true. It is simply NOT true. One of my downfalls is that I try so ridiculously hard every single day to make the most of out of every single opportunity that I am often left feeling discouraged and defeated because, let's face it, no one is supposed to win at life, but oh, how I want to! Life is hard. It is hard for everyone, but oh my goodness, I love it. I love the challenge. I love the struggle, and I love, love, love those rare moments when I can claim a mere yards-worth on this metaphorical uphill battle and scream:
Look! I did it! I won this one.
And then the rest of the time, I am left tripping and sliding my way back down this bloody hill, preferably on my bum but oftentimes my face. So these small and rather insignificant but truly miserable moments, like splashing poop soup all over yourself, your infant daughter and the bathroom, are powerful because, yes, they further remind us just how frustrating and difficult life is and how unscrupulously the odds are stacked against our favour, but they also have the ability to snap us out of the rote routines we can mindlessly end up following just to get things done day after day, and they have the power to surprise us, to wake us up, to humble us and to stir within us feelings of love, appreciation, hope and even laughter.
Maybe a wake-up call was exactly what I needed today.