Like, for instance, when you put your hand through the glass in your door, as you’re banging on it for your toddler to unlock it and let you back in.
(Not that I know anyone guilty of that particular crime.)
(Not that there was some small amount of *ahem* anger involved in said action.)
(Not that my brother-in-law was in the barn feeding sheep and could have gone home to get his key.)
It’s at times like those when you might find yourself appreciating, with greater clarity,
(1.) the father-in-law who comes zipping over to put cardboard over the window and go take care of getting a piece of glass cut (that man can fix anything, I tell you!),
(2.) the wood stove that cranks out heat at such a rate that you don’t even, really, notice the little breeze caused by the lack of a window (not that that breeze is any worse than the others that jet around our old farm house), and
(3.) the toddler who, in announcing to said father-in-law that “Mommy broke the door!” follows up with a very contrite-sounding “Sorry, Mommy” when the point was made about her part in the early morning drama.
(To those of you who will ask, my hand is fine. Rather amazingly so. Kind of like a patron saint or angel or someone was watching out for a hormonally-induced road-rage mama.)
