This morning, I laid in bed for about ten extra minutes, begging, pep-talking, and threatening this day that it needed to be a good one (or I would rip off its head and spit down its throat, or some other such promise that I have no way of keeping. I mean seriously, how do you rip the head from a Thursday? It’s hard. I probably don’t even have the upper body strength to pull that off.)
Feeling confident in my optimistic, go get ’em approach to the day, I sprung out of bed. Walking resolutely to the bathroom, my left big toe *somehow* managed to get caught in the hem of my right pajama pants leg. Just tangled right up in there. In the pants I was currently wearing. Mid-stride.
Five minutes later, I stepped on the old man dog as he lay, camouflaged in a corner of dust and his own hair.
And thirty minutes ago, I got a call from the kid’s school, asking me to come get him because he’s been puking all morning.
All of this is just fine. The kid is playing video games in bed. The dog has forgiven me. I’ve put on socks to keep my toe from snagging any other random bits of apparel I’m wearing (because that shit is weird as hell. How did that even happen?) so I’m probably okay there. The only real damage is to my expectations of what this day would be.
We’ve still got a lot of work to do to figure out his school issues, and I am not terribly surprised that the day he gets sick (he never gets sick, practically) is the day after his school day caused so much weeping. He’s stressed, so stressed that he’s done as many adults do and made himself sick with it, so now hopefully some rest will do wonders for him.
Also, it’s Groundhog Day, and the husband is off work today, so we’ll probably have a Bill Murray fest. Maybe Thursday didn’t let me down after all.