I am generally a happy person.  Most people would say that about me.  I am an optimist.  I am a glass half full kind of girl.  But there are a few things that irk me.  Being expected to have myself, three children, two pies, a diaper bag and a suitcase ready to get there in time for Thanksgiving dinner while he sleeps away the morning is one of them.  I'm tired too.  Why can't I sleep in?  Just once?

He got up ten minutes before we had to leave.  That means we left half an hour late.  That means I was frustrated and frazzled and quietly fuming.

He was in a great mood.  Any why shouldn't he be?  He'd just slept until noon.  He was singing as he got ready.  I was doing the dishes I that I wouldn't have had time to do if he had been up and ready when he was supposed to be.  He was singing some cartoon theme song.  My hands were burning in the soapy water.  He pulled me away from the sink, whipping me around, trying to dance with me, trying to dip me.  I peeled myself away.  "Can't you just let me be grumpy?"  I demanded, secretly happy that I'd just wiped dish-water hands over his clean t-shirt.  He laughed at me and started dancing with Noa instead.

I was over it once we were in the car and on our way.  My pie smelled amazing.  Tim Hortons was much needed and never tastier.  The Dixie Chicks were moving me into a better mood.  It was wonderfully warm for Thanksgiving.  Somehow, singing along with "Earl had to die" dug me out of my funk and made me appreciate the fact that I'll probably never have to feed him poisoned back-eyed-peas and roll him up in a tarp.  Things aren't that bad.  But sometimes it just feels so good to be mad.