Monday and the Slug

I had insomnia last night. I took a sleep aid. It's a natural cal-mag drink, and there's nary a drug about this thing. Except it works.

The wonder that it is, however, means I am extra groggy this morning when our 17-month old rooster with the wispy blonde hair and rapidly developing lungs declares her state-of-awakeness at 6:05 am. We've run out of our green tea-acai-uber-duber miracle of a wake-me-up concoction. Coffee is too heavy and sloshing around in my stomach, so I stop drinking it. I proceed to let the dog out, at which point my bare feet encounter a slug the size of a banana. Maybe it is a Banana Slug, I don't know. My three-year-old squeals in requisite disgust. It is cold and damp and gloomy outside, and the start of what, I fear, will be a very long, wet, dark season here in the Pacific Northwest.

A proud member of this regionally web-footed community, I obligatorily force down the throats of my Southern Californian friends and family the bit of elementary trivia that the rain is "the reason it's so lush and green here." True enough, quite obviously, but that just SO doesn't matter when you're at Day One, of Two-Hundred-and-Six of them staring you in the face. Testing my strength, my will, my focus. Just begging for a showdown, like in the old Wild West gun slinging days. Laughing at me. Antagonizing me. I think how I would like to whip out my pistol right here and now without even taking my ten paces. Cheater.

The cable box blaringly reads just 6:17 am at this point.

The morning marches along at this uncharacteristically sluggish, albeit, rocky pace. A tantrum here. A tattle there. An episode of Curious George. A subsequent episode of Clifford, mostly because Mom still needs a cushion of time to wake up. The vocalized horror of a missing sippy cup here. A blatant refusal of warm oatmeal there. Then, Dear Child, just tell me what is it you plan to eat this morning??

It's now 7:14 am, and I'm ready to go back to bed.

Eventually, we leave the house as usual, for my daily morning bootcamp-like exercise class. Nevermind that I have a sprained ankle. I seriously need to pound the pavement today.

Feeling worked out and oxygenized, yet surprisingly still exhausted (I mean, who yawns during push-ups, really?), we return home for lunch and naps. Usually, this is the confidence-boosting point in my day where I silently and proudly muse, "I can't believe how fast that morning went! It's naptime already?? Where does the day go?" Honestly, I usually feel like a competent, capable mother. A competent, capable human being, really. Today, however...

... are you kidding me???

I feel like I am living in one of those sitcoms where the heroine has to answer to one tiny thing after another, until it all adds up and she's about to blow. Eventually, though, we all know it works itself out in perfect time, and in perfect harmony, at which point the studio audience enjoys a nice laugh, and offers the players a robust round of applause and the credits roll, leaving you wanting more.

...More?!

Ironically enough, the turning point of my day occurs while changing one giantly poopy diaper around three o'clock this afternoon.

My three-year-old is writhing around, trying her darndest to wrestle herself away from the horror that is the diaper wipe, on her tiny little diaper-rashed tushie. (Why this beautiful child hasn't an ounce of interest in using her perfectly pretty, pink, princess potty, I have no idea. But, it is what it is, and I'm okay with that.)

Nonetheless, she's writhing and wrestling, and I say to her, "Darling Girl, the more you fight it, the tougher this becomes, and the more it's going to hurt. Let go, let me help you, and you'll be surprised at how easy this is."

Duh.

In that split second, I realize that during this day to beat all days, I'd been fighting the changing of my own giantly poopy diaper. I choose, then, to let my guard down, to surrender to the day, to stop trying to control things, to escape things, to change things... to simply stop fighting against.

I'm not about to declare the day a total victory. Not by any stretch. But the girls are now peacefully asleep in bed. The day is over. I am snuggled up with my Honey, our tummies happy, having just finished feasting on homemade soup and bread, made with copious amounts of love and attention on a day -- just yesterday -- not at all like today. I reflect on that, and how "yesterday" wasn't so far away. And then I realize that "tomorrow" isn't too far away, either.

I'm learning that some days you're just not meant to be in control. That the simple act of being, of simply letting go and hanging on for the ride, is really all that's ever required. There are some days, that no matter how hard you try to guide it, ...well... it's just not gonna happen for ya. That time is going to move forward, whether you like it, or not. That you can choose to be okay with things how they are, or not. That you can allow life's hiccups to make you a stronger person, or not. But that life is always going to move forward.

As for that slug this morning. It occurs to me that he was a pretty blatant symbol of what the day was to hold in store, I suppose. Slow-moving and slimy. I go back to look for him later this afternoon, after my post- poopy-diaper-epiphany, and he is long gone.

Tomorrow morning, I'd like to see a Bald Eagle when I let the dog out.