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The Bad Day
by MF Sherman
On Monday I woke up with a headache
bigger than the new pillows I just bought for our bed.
The headache was tougher than two Excedrin and a swig of Mountain Dew,
and its dull throb ruled out effective mothering.
So while I waited for relief,
I let the kids watch Arthur,
and The Big Comfy Couch,
and Barney,
and Teletubbies, too.
(Listen, I like the Teletubbies).
As my children argued over the last of the blueberries
and tossed pillows around the living room,
as they snuck treats out of the Easter basket and chased the cat,
I thought, "This is gonna be a bad day."
After breakfast,
during which all three children talked with their mouths full and the
baby
dropped her milk,
I helped the kids wash and dress,
then I lined them up on the couch to watch Sesame Street while I
showered.
Yes, in one morning, I had used up their television hours for a week,
and my headache was now as big as a bed.
While I was singing sad songs to myself in the bathroom mirror,
the girls pulled out all the photo albums.
When I came into the living room,
my son was pointing out grandparents, friends, old apartments, vacation
spots.
"From the days before the girls," he said solemnly.
Yeah, and how much thinner my thighs were then.
"This is a bad day," I replied.
Before we left to run our errands,
the girls needed their diapers changed twice more.
"How 'bout you use the potty?" I asked Gabby, "like a big girl."
"I'll never be a be a big 'gore'!" she screamed.
The window panes in the bathroom and kitchen shook.
My son saw me wince.
"Do you have a headache, Mom?"
Do I have a headache.
We piled into the minivan 20 minutes before we were due somewhere 35
minutes away.
I hate the minivan.
I traded in a Cayman green Thunderbird with a V-8 engine and a
CD-changer
in the trunk -- for a minivan.
What was I thinking?
It must have been a bad day.
Did I have a headache?
Whose idea was the minivan, anyway?
My sunglasses went with the Thunderbird.
They look dumb on a woman who drives a red minivan.
I look stupid.
Could this day be any worse?
The drive to the suburbs was just long enough for the girls to doze off.
My son had escaped into a good book. (Oh, God! It's Animorphs again!)
Into the spaces between Rush Limbaugh's ranting and raving
crept the usual worries of a bad day:
Are we saving enough money?
Is his job secure?
Are the kids learning enough?
Are the kids learning anything?
Am I fat?
Will he love me when I'm 40?
How 'bout when I'm 50?
Nothing will happen to the kids, right?
Will Gabby be out of diapers before my mother visits?
Does the cat need to be declawed?
Should I cut my hair?
I peered into the rearview mirror.
This is a bad day.
Gabby woke up in time to notice where we were headed.
"Daddy!" she shrieked. "Daddy, Mommy! We're going to see Daddy at work!"
I nodded, still lost in my plans for rapid thigh reduction and a new
hairdo.
The road leading into the office complex is lined with large pine trees.
"Christmas trees!" Gabby shrieked. "Look, Boy-boy! Christmas trees!
"They look happy! I'm happy, too!"
Nora woke up and stretched.
I caught her eye in the mirror, and she grinned at me.
John reached up and rubbed my shoulder.
"How's your headache, Mom?"
"It's... It's gone. Thanks for asking."
I signaled to turn.
"Look, Mommy!" Gabby yelled. "The trees are dancing!
"They're waving their little tree arms and dancing! I like 'em! See 'em?!"
And I did.
The wind was gusting and shaking the full bodies of the pine trees.
And it did look like they were dancing.
The trees were dancing.
The trees were dancing.
And my children were happy.
It was a good day.
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