You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocket ship underpants don’t help. – Bill Watterson
The older I get, the less I believe in bad days.
If I WAS to believe in them, today might count. It’s so hot and humid outside that when you step out into the Missouri summer you immediately crave oxygen and start sweating.
My newest little one is a certifiable monster baby, already wearing size 18 month clothes and not yet 6 months old. What is wondrous and cuddly perfection when cozied up together in the rocking chair is a bit cumbersome when I’m carrying him in his car seat and also herding my other children across the black asphalt of the camp parking lot.
Taking my littlest wingman along for the ride at four work meetings today was already something I was dreading, and not because I don’t relish every millisecond with him. He found his voice recently and he likes to hear it, but he likes to hear it at the highest decibel he can achieve. And he did it, today, for sixty minutes while two of my colleagues politely pretended they’d lost the capacity to hear.
After dragging a fussy babe in and out of several meetings in a heat so intense I couldn’t see for the fog on my glasses, he started into his red-faced grunt-capades. This is diaper filling at championship levels. And he did not disappoint.
By the time I got him home, the blowout was so intense that his diaper, his pants and his carseat had all fallen victim.
I finally got him inside out of the heat and we both cooled off while I waited for my back to stop spasm-ing.
It was a hectic morning, but not a bad one.
I think we’re only allowed so many “bad” days. The death of a loved one is a bad day. The loss of a job is a bad day.
When I was younger, I let bad days turn into bad times. Getting dumped in college turned into a very bad year. In hindsight, however, it wasn’t so bad after all. I made some of the best friends of my life and made some of the best memories in that year.
My late father-in-law, an amazing guy, fought Type – 1 Diabetes his entire life and survived a kidney and a heart transplant before succumbing to cancer nine years ago. He had some bad days. But amidst the bad days, he had some great years.
This is what I think I’m learning, as I grow older. I’d like to think I’m never going to really “grow up” and, sheesh, I really hope I never lose the healthy level of immaturity God blessed me with.
What I’m trying to embrace every day is the good. The long, hot, trying day that ends with snuggles with my children. With a roof over our head. And food on the table. And ‘The Bachelorette’ on television – wait, I think I’ve gotten off-track.
When I look back on these years, I have a feeling I’m going to remember the cuddles, the car rides, the dance parties and the rocks and flowers pressed into my hands by my children. And if I do remember how high my blood pressure rose listening to my infant son’s screams during a business meeting, I think I’ll only remember it to laugh.