One time, when I was in fifth grade, I ran down the outside corridors of my elementary school with a lunch cart, rammed into one of the doors going inside a little too hard--and shattered the glass in the door's two windows.
I felt embarrassed. Guilty. Frustrated. I was only trying to have fun, and I broke a door. A heavy door, with windows on the top and bottom. Into pieces. Oops.
I didn't get in trouble back then, so it wasn't bad in the long run. But today felt kind of like that, only I'm bigger, so the emotions seem smaller, proportionally. There was the dentist appointment we missed--twice--the potty-training accidents, the folded tube in the tire of my newly-tuned-up bike, the oh-no-all-the-bottles-are-dirty-and-Ninja's-starving baby moments...blah. Ah, well. At least I wrote. And at least I biked five miles, and my husband had the car at the place where I biked, so I was able to get a ride home.