It was 88 degrees at 10:00 in the morning, the dewpoint was 80, and I was driving around South Minneapolis trying to find swim diapers.* It appeared that the city had all its crews out on all the streets trying to do all the work at once, as I dodged asphalt and utility crews every other block. The uppity grocery store hardly carried any diapers, let alone swim diapers, probably because rich white kids don't crap, but the Walgreen's across the street offered up "Swimmies" at $9.99 for 11 diapers.
(This is one time I know that our cloth swim diapers beat out disposable economically, as one "keepie" cost $9.99, and he has been using it for two years.)
Whatever. I paid for the Nemo-encrusted things and headed back to day care. Once there, I was met with "M- doesn't think these could possibly be a boy's swim suit," as the orange and fishy bottoms were waved in my face. "And who is S-?"
"S is the little boy who used to own those, and what happened to Finn's trunks from yesterday?"
"His grandparents took them with them when they picked him up."
At this point, I thought I might cry.
Nothing was really wrong, but it had been a bad night of sleep followed by a morning of little glitches that added up to an 85% chance of tears. Our Internet doesn't work when it's hot, Finn doesn't listen because he's three, and I just could not get us out the door. Not without one very short time out, at least. Once we started out onto the porch, I was met with the car seat, sitting like a statue, not in the car at all. I led Finn back in and attached the car seat, already sweating by the time I was done with this three-minute-activity.
We drove through town and were tail-gated by a woman in a very big hurry. I set my cruise on the speed limit and took my usual route. She tried all sorts of little detours and short cuts only to wind up behind me again. Twice. Were that me, I might have drawn the conclusion that these tactics don't work in city traffic, but she was tail-gating, so she's already not me.
I should have left day care and headed straight to a coffee shop to work out my mood with some quiet time (because you really can't go to a bar until after 11:00 a.m.), but as it was, I would not arrive at my desk until 10:30.
How many do-overs do you get in a season?
*Obligatory liberal guilt disclaimer: These are all first world problems, but that doesn't mean it didn't suck this morning.