Yesterday, Husband was off for Veterans Day. He did the double kid drop-off and pick-up. I had the luxury of simply coming to work and then going home. It was so easy. I was so calm.
This morning, it was me again. The kids were good. The rain was not their fault. Nor was the bad traffic.
And yet, when I was trying to dress for work, and when Winton dropped a penny behind my bed and started unmaking all my freshly smoothed covers to find it, I got crotchety. And later, when we stopped the car in a big puddle on Roland avenue, and when Clara carped at me that I hadn't parked close enough to school and then dropped all of her car snack (cereal) on the floor, I got crotchety again.
I eventually pulled into the parking lot here at work full of self abusive thoughts (why am I so damn crotchety? what the hell is my problem, for life is really not THAT hard? ) and more productive ones (we all need charts indicating our respective responsibilities in the mornings and evenings and then maybe I won't have to think about things as much and won't get cranky? maybe??).
And then, because I was busy self-abusing and planning ahead, I got out of the driver's side of the car, leaned across to my absurdly heavy backpack on the passenger seat, and using my right hand at an odd angle, lifted and twisted the backpack onto my back, setting fire to a ring of muscles all along my right lower ribs.
Cue Johnny Cash, for it burns burns burns, the ring of fire.
But at least I'm not as worried about being cranky for no reason anymore.
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