Welcome to little glimpse into my life.

For a nice little change since I have been back from Ireland, everything was going swimmingly. Every single person in our household slept until after 10am. Emily did not cry when she was asked to get dressed—first time since March of ’12. I was having a good hair day. (where good = excellent.) I had forgotten, for the moment, that I am getting an extra-special crown on Monday. (where crown = something you get at the dentist; not crown = something you get when you are royalty.)

And then.

This.

Is it black?

It is navy?

MYSTERY!

I was about to weep about the situation, as I’m apt to do (I’m a weeper about ridiculously unimportant things, you know.), but I immediately remembered what my mornings are like. What every morning is like.

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Really?”

“Mama! You aren’t listening to me. There’s nothing!”

“Are you kidding me, Emily? I have VISA bills that would probably beg to differ. And I see at least nine overflowing drawers. And my closet is seriously jealous of yours.”

CUE THE CRYING.

“Nothing looks good. Nothing fits right. This is too long. This is too tight. This is too short. This is too big. I hate this color—it doesn’t match with my skin tone. My hair looks awful—it’s too flat today.

…

“I don’t know what to do! I can’t possibly go to school like this.”

“OH MY GOD.”

“Mama, what are you doing? Why are you on the phone? WHO ARE YOU CALLING?”

“I’m calling Bubbie. To apologize. For 1990. Actually for 1990-1996, inclusive.”

Apologize for the tears.

So many tears.

And for fighting so, so hard to look this bad.