Today, a good friend of mine ran the Boston Marathon. 25 miles of it, because some asshats bombed the finish line. She's OK, but obviously shaken. Running the marathon has been a goal of hers for years, and while 26.2 miles was going to be tough, I imagine it's even tougher to be forced to quit 1.2 miles from your goal.
In smaller news, my workday was not one I'd describe as gratifying. To put it mildly. To put it more directly, I counted the days left until my severance arrives. More than once.
And then at the end of the day I had to buy dishwasher detergent. Which isn't a big deal, unless one is cranky.
Anyway. I knew I couldn't bring my work attitude home. My family doesn't deserve that. And after being in a downward spiral (and being around others who were spiraling even faster), I was sick of it.
So I called my mom. And I picked up a pizza (already planned, but as it happens the best idea ever). And I made myself a vodka grape juice (which is a thing if that's the only mixer you have on hand). Strapped baby into the booster and gave her bits of cheese from my pizza.
She bounced up and down with each bite and made a yummy sound. I laughed at her. Nick laughed at her. And she pretended to get the joke, so we were all laughing together. And I forgot what I ever did for entertainment before I had a baby. And then she took a bath and I vacuumed and then smelled her clean baby hair. This is why I do it. This is why the world goes on. This is why people set goals. Not just because of babies. Because there's good things in the world. Because the small, simple moments can be the best. And because if there wasn't bitter, there wouldn't be sweet.