Dear blog, I have sinned. For I have had another crappy Clara preschool drop-off. A really bad one. One of the ones where she clings and I shove, and she cries, and I groan, and she wails and I flail, and I ask the teacher to intercede to help and then I leave, guilty and ashamed, with Winton pressed loudly against my head.
From Whence Did Such a Bad Morning Arise? You ask.
Perhaps the eclipse? For it has been an odd enough week that astrology may hold some water.
Perhaps yesterday afternoon's dance class#3? For that was a festival of resistance, again, with Winton hiding and Clara laying on the floor with her blanket on her head. The teacher left in tears this week. I think we'll stop trying. The bad post-class mood persisted into bedtime which was itself a dramatic tour de force of yelling and crying only calmed by letting both children climb into my bed and intermittently snuggle and hit each other.
Perhaps from my tiredness? For Poor Husband had an abscessed tooth and couldn't get a dental surgeon to see him yesterday, so he went to bed, miserable and hopped-up on vicodin only to wake me at 2 AM insisting that I feel his chest to check if his heart was beating irregularly. He finally got a surgeon to take him this morning at 8 and had, with only local anesthesia, a wisdom tooth, abcsess and CYST removed. He's certainly having a more painful morning (and more painful week) than I.
But, oh Blog Confessional, this is all about me, so let's resume the narcissistic catalogue, shall we?
Another "perhaps" for the bad morning is my emotional hang-over from yesterday's effort to take Little Cat to the SPCA. I failed. I sat in the admissions waiting room for half an hour and then wept, profusely. Then I took LC to the vet, and pleaded to have her checked even though we didn't have an appointment. Wept. Named her "Pepita" for her vet records, had the vet declare her free of diseases that could transfer to our other pets, and then took her home. She's only six months old. She's now terrorizing the dog (who outweighs her by 40 pounds but cowers, shivering, when Pepita is in his vicinity).
And then there is Chapter three. I would just like to finish it. I would like life to get out of the way so I can write it and stop thinking about it.
Winton has also been screaming for two days about wanting to listen to "scary music" in the car. I finally figured out that on Monday, when Husband was home with the kids, they must have listened to his new Streets cd in the car. So today, triumphant for having figured out what "scary music" is, we listened to inside outside the whole way to his daycare. Winton has unorthodox tastes. (Are you impressed, btw, that I finally figured out how to do links?)