Laughing Through the Unexpected

So here's a fun scenario for you:

You wake up to a dreary, gray day. You wake up already tired, with a pulsing sinus headache. You are greeted with on-the-mend children who decide to scrap with each other for the majority of the morning. You are waiting for news of your dad; you are waiting for news of your mom. You're fighting your internal nature to find things to be grateful for, when all you really feel like doing is scream and kick Mark the Moose who's jingle-belling his way across the room. The more you silently wish for peace, the more chaotic things become. It's uncanny. The more orderly you wish for your house to be, the crazier it becomes. You wish for a nice, clean living room and instead you are met with a heaving ocean of super heroes, Thomas tracks and trains, every puzzle piece we own, kitchen dishes and utensils, books and more books, crayons scattered like fallen leaves, pages of a Toys R Us circular strewn about, random articles of clothing ... and somehow all of that is internalizing itself in your spirit. And you know why you're doing all of this, thinking this way, because you think you can fool yourself into thinking that if you can somehow control something, then the rest of what you perceive as your chaotic life will somehow fall into place, make you feel better. (Yeah, right). You don't have time to tackle the mountain of dishes that need to be washed, so you spend a few minutes at least organizing them in a display that looks less freakish and disorderly, gaining two more inches of counter space so you can make lunch for the kids in ten minutes' time. You feel your blood pressure rising, your pulsing head throbbing with more urgency, your breathing fluctuating between short and fast, and purposefully slow and deep (recalling what you learned from childbirth classes) ...

This is your morning.
And then ... and then ...

You hear this:

"Mommy! What is THAT all over the kitchen floor?!"

I emerge from the underbelly of my Christmas tree, trying to suck up the daily blizzard of needles. I make my way through that heaving ocean of every toy and book scattered on my living room floor. I get close enough to see what Aidan is pointing at, why he is screwing his little face up in some disgusted contortion ...

You are having this kind of day, right? And what do you see?

A huge pile of dog vomit.

And not only that ... the dog is still in action, heaving away in your children's bedroom. On the dark blue carpet.

Yeah, baby! Why not?! Dog vomit -- awesome!

I screech to my ever-present shadow, "Grace! Do NOT step there! Do NOT follow me! Do NOT go near that!" I realize I am completely out of paper towels and must run to the basement to get a spare roll. That means I must leave my children in the presence of a heaving dog and now three massive mounds of dog vomit. Do I trust my children? I trust Aidan. "Do NOT let Grace near that, Aidan!" I pleaded, I ordered.

"Whoa! Whoa! Wook at dat!" Grace was mesmerized. Aidan was grossed out. Armed now with paper towels, a plastic bag, a water bottle, disinfectant for the kitchen floor and carpet cleaner for my kids' room, I sighed and set to work.

And I started to laugh, the first time all morning.

God's kind of funny sometimes. And what, exactly, is in my control? Right ... nothing.

I think I'll laugh some more.