I should have given up when I found out about the bread.

My apologies for not updating sooner.  I didn't realize it had been so long!  I guess I've been using up all my random thoughts on Twitter.

Man, what a crap day.  And yes, I do mean crap, not crappy.

I got up this morning with dreams of sourdough toast still in my head.  We used half a loaf for hamburgers last night, and I knew there were four pieces left over.  I was really looking forward to crispy toast with butter.  (Sad, isn't it, that TOAST is what I fantasize about?)  Charlie got out the door on time, Austin was his usual meth-chimp self, and I was just waiting for his nap so I could get my toast on.

After I put him down, I went into the kitchen literally drooling.  I don't usually eat breakfast, and when I do, it's not til after Charlie's gone to work.  I was ridiculously hungry.  I looked on top of the microwave, where we usually keep the bread, and...it wasn't there.  Checked the basket next to the microwave...nothing.  It's kind of pitiful, but I started getting a little frantic.  Kitchen table?  Top of the fridge?  Next to the coffee pot?  O DEAR GOD DON'T TELL ME HE THREW IT OUT LAST NIGHT!  Nope, not in the trash.

Totally puzzled, I called Charlie at work:

"Thank you for calling X, this is Charles, how may I help you?"

"Hey, it's me."

"Good morning!  What's up?"

"Uh, where's the leftover sourdough bread?"

"Oh, we ate it."

"We, who?  There were four pieces left."

"Me and Austin.  I told you.  Sorry."

INSERT IRRATIONAL CARB-FIENDING RAGE HERE.

I said something snarky, and hung up.  I was so pissed!  That was MY bread, fucker.  MINE.  And no way did Austin eat it...his idea of "eating" toast is to gum a two-inch section of crust for ten minutes, then throw it at the pugs' heads.  What does that mean?  The Hubs scarfed down four pieces of toast and left me nothing for breakfast.

Subsequently, some feisty text-messages were exchanged; there was douchebaggery on both ends.  Highlights include:  me calling him an inconsiderate jerk, him making a passive-aggressive comment about me sleeping past 7AM.  Finally I realized I was laughing about the whole thing, and we gave up on the fight.  I shook it off, and got stuff squared away for the day.

I spent the day running errands and scouting houses for the MIL, swung by Charlie's office, the usual.  By the time I got to BJ's, it was after two.  I hadn't realized how late it had gotten.  We were well into the naptime danger-zone.  I looked at Austin.  "Doing okay, buddy?"  He gave me one of his super-grins, laughed, and threw Elmo at my head.  He was awesome through the whole store, not fussy at all.  I thought for sure he'd crash when we got home.

Ho ho ho, was I ever wrong.  I set him down after unloading the groceries, and he went apeshit.  Screeching (happily), throwing toys everywhere, trying to climb onto the coffee table, terrorizing the dogs (he has a new thing -- pulling their tails.  UGH.).  Wouldn't settle down to have a snack or watch a movie.  Wouldn't nap.  I let him play, but every time I tried to do something other than sit there and watch him play, he cried and screamed and (seriously) whacked me with whatever toy was within reach.  I couldn't get anything done, there were groceries everywhere, no dinner prep done.  Finally, I felt like I was going to lose it.  You know, that feeling like you're about to channel your mom and start screaming "EVERYONE JUST NEEDS TO TURN IT OFF...RIGHT NOW.  TURN IT OFF!"

I knew I was really at my breaking point when I felt the urge to yell at him.  He's 14 months old, for Pete's sake.  He's not doing stuff to piss me off, he's doing stuff BECAUSE HE'S 14 MONTHS OLD AND THAT'S WHAT THOSE LITTLE FUCKERS DO.  I bit my tongue, picked him up, and carried him upstairs.  I set him in his crib, told him I loved him, and went downstairs to cry my eyes out.

After about five minutes of fussing, he fell asleep, and I took a break.  My awesome friend Lisa gave me some encouragement, and reminded me that I did the right thing by taking a step back.  She made a good point -- sometimes, our presence during the toddler rage-fest only makes things worse.  The wee monkeys need a break, too.  It was nice to get that reassurance from another mom, a mom I hold in very high esteem.  

Shortly after that, Charlie got home.  I'd filled him in on the situation -- it's only fair to give him the chance to bail, right?  Austin woke up at the same time, and the two of them went out together so I could have some time to myself.

I realized while they were gone that the reason I felt so lousy today was that all week, I've been taking care of everybody else.  I hadn't spent any time on or with myself.  Usually, I make it a point to have a little "me time" every day, but this week it got away from me somehow.

So here I am, 12 hours from the Toast Fiasco, and it feels like a totally different day.  I've had a bubble bath, a glass of wine, time to read and listen to music.  I can hear my boys upstairs, Austin giggling, Charlie doing the usual bedtime chat.  The house is peaceful, full of the quiet sounds of night.