Glimpses of Hope

Today was a good day. 

It started by me oversleeping.

My daughter managed to find a water bottle and dump in on the carpet. 

My box of ‘Frosted Wheats’ was empty and there was that not quite enough amount left in my second choice.  (my husband made me eggs on toast, though – bonus points for him!)

Little miss refused to give me a hug goodbye…first time she’s ever done that.

I missed an important deadline at work.

I didn’t start two other projects because of desparately trying to make said deadline.

Since my forgotten umbrella was at home, I got soaked on my way to lunch.

Our new (to us) car is giving us grief…just days after a service.

My husband is ill for the second time in a week.

I had to leave items in the middle of using self checkout to chase after (surprisingly speedy) daughter.

I finished a mountain of dishes, then discovered more on the table.

So, on the scale of greatness, this one wouldn’t score particularly high.  In fact, by some standards, it’s fair to say it was particularly shit.  However, to one who is in the process of recovery, today was a good day.  You see, on a bad day, just one of the above events would be enough to send me spiralling into the depths of despair. 

The Call

It’s 7:30am.  The phone rings and I answer.  It’s my Grandfather, sounding serious, asking for my Dad.  He’s outside shovelling snow so I take over and he goes into the phone.  Too much time passes and, even with my little kid’s shovel, I manage to finish before my Dad returns.  When I get inside mom and dad are sitting at the table looking serious.

This is the first time I hear the world death.   

Although that part is singed into my memory, I can’t remember who it was.  My memory seems to have repeated it as well.  In my head, this happened multiple times, but I know some calls came in the summer. I know I didn’t always answer the phone.  One thing is for certain. 

Calls before breakfast are never good news.  

Silent Sunday