Hard

Laura is in the middle of a screaming wall-eyed fit. I know how she feels.

Some nights, it’s kind of hard to come up with something for the blessing jar. I mean, it’s not that I’ve had a bad day, specifically. I wouldn’t even say the tenor of the day has been bad. I’m just weary. I’m tired at work, ready for a break. I’m tired at home, ready for my desk to be returned to it’s regular state of disarray. I’m tired of seeing the piles of laundry that I know I should be disseminating to their respective homes, all the while searching every morning for clean underwear in the bottom of baskets.  I’m tired of hearing Harrison chatter non-stop, even as I know that in ten years he’ll barely speak to me and I’ll be wishing for the days when he talked nonstop.

I’m just tired.

I feel terrible whining about this, because I know there are people who have legitimate problems. They’re not just hung over from Daylight Savings Time. They have actual problems.

I just want to be able to throw the same kind of fit that Laura is throwing intermittently, through the filter of her nightly bottle. I don’t think she’s teething, I don’t think she’s sick. I think she’s just tired, just as I am tired, just as Robert as tired, just as we all are tired.

It sometimes seems unfair that the youngest among us are the only ones allowed to fully express their frustrations with the world.

I wonder if, after a real screamer like she’s been having tonight, I’d feel any better. I bet it’s pretty cathartic.

Wish I knew the neighbors wouldn’t call the cops if I let loose.