I had a horrid day on Saturday. It started off reasonably, 5am wake-up call from a certain little dude notwithstanding.
But by mid-morning, after I’d made everyone breakfast, tidied up and put on my first load of washing, my husband had said something that really annoyed me, my daughter had gotten in my face one too many times and bambino would not stop grizzling. All I wanted to do was sit for a minute and read the paper, was that too much to ask?
You better believe I totally stewed in that funk. For the next few hours, I pretty much avoided everybody. I grunted in response to questions, unable to make even the simplest decisions.
My husband retreated to the safety of the garden and my daughter happily amused herself with her toys. When bambino went down for his mid-morning nap, I slunk off to bed for a soggy groggy nap.
By early afternoon, I was unsure if I was going to take my daughter to her swimming lesson as usual. The week before had been a lot less enjoyable than usual. It had been a hot day and the pool was full of families seeking respite from the heat. I got interrupted mid-lap by couple of bored tweens who had decided to swim across the lanes. The lifeguard didn’t even notice (I can only assume he was meditating... or catatonic) so it fell to me to shout at them that they were about to cause an accident.
I’ll go this week, I humphed, but I’ll only do ten laps then I’ll sit and eat a huge block of chocolate while I wait for her to finish. Oh, and if those kids swim across me again, I’ll punch them.
Of course, the pool was quiet and I had the lane to myself. And once I was in the water, I did twenty laps then a few more because I had time and was feeling good. And on the way out, when my daughter stopped to buy a packet of vege chips from the vending machine, I chose a small block of dark chocolate, of which I ate two squares then took the rest home to my husband.
By the time the evening rolled around and we had a guest over for dinner, I was pretty much myself again.
I’d had a bad day. And that was it.
And although that doesn’t sound like a big deal, if you know me well then you’ll know that it actually is.
Bad days are usually a cause of agony in my inner world. A bad day is seen as a signifier of so many bigger things but particularly my shortcomings as a wife and mother (because good mums don’t have bad days and they definitely don’t take them out on anyone else, right?). A bad day is a sign that the state of my relationships are poor and worrisome, which exposes my lack of backbone and flakiness. A bad day is evidence that I am bad, things are bad and they’ll never get any better.
Except this time, a bad day was just a bad day. It was bad and it passed.
And that, my friends, is progress.