Booger Cup

It's been a hell of a week.  I've got some extra time this morning and I thought to myself, I should really sit down with a cup of coffee and catch up on the news...

Since I'm half-blind before I have my coffee I poured myself the cup my Other Half has so thoughtfully left out for me and stumbled towards my desk.  I gingerly took the first sip, which is always too hot for me but I can never resist, clicked on Drudge and then wrapped my hand around the handle for a good gulp.

And that's when I noticed something sticky.  My middle finger was suctioned to the cup, held in place by a massive booger.

Gross. 

Although after three years of being a mother, it's not as gross as it once would have been.

I will bet you all I own that I know who put that booger there, although I can't even pretend I know why she did it.  Probably just because.  I'm often amazed at the places where they show up, but this is a first on one of MY cups.  If it were anyone else leaving boogers on my cup, this would be a really big deal.  Like a "you should really avoid mom for a while" kind of deal.  But since she's not here for me to see that smirk, I have no idea if this was done to be funny or if she just needed a place to hide her booger before dad saw it. 

What is it about our own flesh and blood that makes us so complacent in their abuse?  Ok, maybe abuse is too strong a word, but I think that in some countries, the crap I've put up with lately is considered abuse.

Like yesterday, when after a big day, she completely melted on the way to the car.  Had to be carried, kicking and screaming; strapping the car seat was an incredible feat of skill and speed.  She yelled the entire six minutes home that she just didn't love me anymore, her strongest insult since the word hate has been ruled out by a preschool of kids not allowed to express strong feelings.  Of course she got distracted once we got there and saw that Grandpa had mowed the majority of the field.  But I'm pretty sure that exposing the ear drums to a scream that high pitched for six minutes at a time is in fact a torture method used on terrorists. 

But I'm her mother so not only am I suppossed to put up with this crap, but I'm also suppossed to try and understand where it's coming from.  So I stayed calm in the car, resisting the urge to turn around and do my best impression of my dad and tell her to SHUT THE F*** UP! and willed myself to remember that she'd had a big day and skipped nap. 

Maybe it's those high intensity times that make the small things, like boogers on coffee cups, seem a lot funnier than they probably are.

There are a million ways to make someone smile.  And while a valiant attempt was made by my duo on Mother's Day, it's really those moments you don't expect that make life enjoyable.  And, of course, it doesn't hurt that boogers are easily removed. 

Wish the same could be said for those damn shower crayons...