The Last Straw

It’s been a hot and unpredictably stormy week in northern Virginia. Today, the weather matched my mood.

My day started off bright. A colleague gave me an adorable new water tumbler as a thank you for making her daughter’s sweet 16 cake last month. It was truly my pleasure to make the cake—and she had already thanked me by making my family a batch of amazing egg rolls—so the gift was unexpected, thoughtful, and kind.

But then the workday began, and the air grew thick.

A few catty emails and frustrating projects created energy in the air. And then the lightning strike: the agent for our keynote speaker called to say they had to cancel.

The news just hung in the air. I was shocked. It was no one’s fault, but I felt utterly responsible. I was sad for the speaker, sad for the Society, and if I’m being honest, a bit sad for myself too. What a letdown.

Things were gloomy after that— Small annoyances that on another day may have seemed minute, now seemed to come together to form one giant cloud over my head. One of my employees had a conference call that flopped and she was livid. A vendor called and wanted to triple the cost of their services. My insulin pump (which was clipped to the middle of my bra) kept vibrating throughout a meeting because my sugar was low.

Enough was enough. I decided to head home. As I drove out of Old Town, the sky threw slow, fat raindrops on my windshield.

When I got home, I trudged through the door like Eyore, holding my trusty new tumbler like a lifeline. It was the only bright spot in my day. My kids noticed it too—the bright teal cup looked cheery and new to them, as well. So I let them each take sips of my lemonade while I sat down to have dinner. 

And then I heard a quick, sharp crack. My 3-year-old had accidentally broken the tall reusable straw from the tumbler. 

I politely excused myself for a moment and walked upstairs to sit on the edge of my bed. I know it’s ironic, but that was the final straw. I couldn’t take any more disappointment in one day. And just as a fat tear built up in the corner of my eye and threatened to run down my cheek, my 4-year-old ran into the room and nearly flattened me with a hug. She was followed by my 3-year-old, his teddy, and my husband.

It seems the tumbler wasn’t the only thing they noticed when I came home. They also noticed my slouched body language, my drawn face, my tired eyes. They may have been momentarily distracted by the shiny new cup, but they didn’t miss that their mommy was upset. 

My 4-year-old asked what was wrong, and I told her that I just had a bad day. And really that’s all it was. Nothing to let drag me down. Nothing that a group hug couldn’t put into perspective.

Tomorrow will be better. It may not be perfect, but it will be a fresh start. I’ll try to replace the straw from my tumbler. I'll try to replace our keynote speaker. I'll make a new lemonade. And I’ll start clearing up the storms from today one at a time.