Much has been made of the organic, low sugar, low carb diets.
But this is not a post about eating well.
This is a post about mornings that are made of tears.
Last week I “lost it” over something not really proportionate with losing it.
My husband had not returned the car keys to their abode (back in the car, in the ignition). Living in the country means we do that.
He had kindly put the car keys on the car keys hook.
Makes sense, except we had an unspoken pattern of leaving them in the car.
So while my son was squalling to move, exhausted and an hour past his nap, I hopped into the car eager to roar us away to get some nap time.
Except, no keys.
I lost it.
Actually, I just sighed dramatically and confidently whipped open the glove box. Here was my extra stash of keys (now everyone knows this and I will have to find another spot to hide them).
Again, no keys.
I knew who the culprit was. I knew where the keys were: in my husband’s pocket, safely stowed up the hill where he was rehearsing the umpteenth detail with the contractor for our new home.
Yes, I do realize how spoiled I sound in this story, the married wife who is getting a home built, her husband managing the process, and the car keys, for a vehicle which we are lucky enough to own, are nowhere to be found.
Yes, it’s this latter bit that does me in. Yes, it’s a molehill that I’m making into a mountain.
And yes, I know I wrote a book with a chapter on not doing precisely that.
Okay, back to the story.
I march up the path swearing under my breath and rehearsing a lecture for my husband if he has misplaced both sets of keys and we can’t begin nap time.
One set rests calmly on their designated hook, which, interestingly enough, only makes me more angry because now I don’t have bigger reasons to be angry.
I harumph into the car and try to quiet myself so I stand a chance at authentically quieting my sobbing son.
But before I reach my seat, my husband appears from the construction site. He has a package in hand, something I ordered, and he gives it to me, delighted to see me receive new something.
When I explain my frustration, he apologizes and suggests he take our son for a drive for his nap.
I have none of it.
By the time I crank the engine, I’m aware that my husband’s quick apology has sent me over the edge.
I’m bawling as I bounce down the gravel road. My son is not tired anymore as much as he is curious why I’m making so much noise.
I can’t quiet my crying.
We hurl down the hill, and my son starts asking every few minutes, “Momma, you okay?”
To which I have to swallow and stutter, “Yes, sweetie, I’m okay.”
This is sort of true and sort of not.
It does help to cry.
It doesn’t help to cry while trying to tell your two year old you’re okay. I would like to tell him I’m processing. But he doesn’t know that word yet.
As soon as I get a good round of tears out and streaming, he would invariably pipe up again, “Momma? … Okay?”
Each time I began to believe my answer a little more, “Yes,” hiccup, snuffle, nose wipe, “I’m okay, sweetie.”
After a few minutes and a fresh round of tears my son stopped asking.
Then he said something that is perhaps the best line of comfort I’ve received. It’s the only thing that his world could offer to the complexities of my own. And I highly recommend it for anyone who is hurting over something as deep as car keys being lost.
“Donuts are yummy.”
That they are, my son, that they are.
Image credit: pinxecards.com/products-page/humor/keep-calm-eat-a-donut/