Classy- But I Cuss A Little

I spent a good portion of my time in the tub, last night, scanning Pinterest.  I found a t-shirt that said, “Classy But I cuss a Little”.  Perfect! I thought, I need that shirt, in grey, with BLACK /BOLD, all caps font please?  A friend recently told me that I’m proper in the extreme, except for when I swear.

Yesterday morning, marked the last day of school.  As a home school mom, I feel compelled to say, “Can I get a hallelujah?”  This past school year has been marked with tears, blood, a bit of sweat and GROWTH, such sweet growth.  I wouldn’t trade it, but LORD HAVE MERCY!  I do not want to repeat a single moment of it either. Some things are best remembered not relieved.

What’s interesting to me about milestone days, like the last day of school, is that they feel as though they should be marked, celebrated, commemorated, put in a scrapbook.  Yesterday, was no such juncture.  I’d been up most of the night before on call.  My husband got our children up and out the door for the last hoorah at their local hybrid school, where they take one day of classes, get most of their socialization, and all of their musical and artistic exposure.

Once the garage door shut, I proceeded to stumble to the coffee pot, threw a pair of scrubs in the dryer to erase the wrinkles, grabbed a super speedy shower so that I could show up at my paying job, at the very least clean, and this is when things began falling apart.  I tied my robe, got out the hair tools, hoping to make the most of the 15 minutes I had to groom.  I burned my wrist on the curling iron, knotted my trusty robe’s belt so well that I couldn’t get it untied when I was done with it, and came very close to using scissors to cut it off of my person.  Burned, trapped by terry cloth, and cussing a blue streak, I managed to take a deep breath, and collected myself (and my scrubs from the dryer).

I made it to work on time. Ok, so I did put my make-up on once I got there. But here’s the thing, what started as a bad day, wasn’t really a bad day, it was a bad 15 minutes.  I chose not to milk those horrible moments for an entire eight-hour shift.  This is the point.  Swearing (as needed) picking yourself up, and dusting yourself off from the notion that things and days should always go smoothly, this is where the game change happens.  For me, what makes the difference between a bad day and a bad 15 minutes is when I let go of the picture postcard expectation of what should be, and make the most of what is.

I didn’t write my children notes for their lunch boxes yesterday, I didn’t make them scones for breakfast, or send them off with an inspiring little speech, but as I was putting a wrap on the day from the bath, I could laugh at the t-shirt find, know that it had my name on it, and remember that tomorrow is a brand new day.





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