It's been a challenging two weeks here, what with the spousal unit gone for all but thirty-six hours (or so) of it. And while I have no room or cause to complain, it doesn't give me a free pass from feeling tired or overwhelmed or occasionally sprouting a head of snakes and letting loose a primal scream straight into my pillow. Fortunately, the man is coming home tonight, and I can already feel the pressure lifting.
Late this afternoon, though, I was thick in the funk of things. Lea asked to be lifted onto the kitchen counter, a request I complied with only after sighing with an exasperation even I—martyr of all martyrs—recognized as far too dramatic. So I lifted her up and was about to go on about my business when she said, "Wait. Stay here."
"What is it?"
"Put your nose here," she said, pointing to her own nose. So I did.
"I can see that you're tired. Tired of cooking and driving around and stuff."
"Yeah, I am. I'm tired."
"Well, don't worry," she whispered, giving me a hug. "You'll be dead soon."
Talk about a lightbulb-a-ha!-Holy-Mother-of-God moment. I laughed my ass off, I did.