And Then I Stepped On A Slug

It's been one of those weeks.

Our second baby would've been two this week. I thought it wouldn't be a big deal. It was.

I spent every extra minute of free time planning a yard sale that made a grand total of $14.

We got adoption paperwork back in the mail because we had submitted something incorrectly. Oh, snail mail.

I haven't slept through the night in a week due to thunderstorms, racing minds and a four year old who has suddenly decided that sleeping through the night is for suckers. (I realize that to those of you with newborns this seems ridiculous but when you get past that sleepless stage and into the realm of the living, the nights when you go backwards take on a whole new realm of pain.)

I had to give my son a very specific and anatomically correct sex talk. It's too early. Darn his very particular and insistent questions and all the pregnant women around me that have precipitated them.

And then I stepped on a slug. Tonight, when I got up from the couch to go rooting through the kitchen to find my secret stash of life-saving mint milanos, I stepped on a slug. A slimy, fat, sitting-in-the-middle-of-my-kitchen-floor slug.  Right.

Normally, I like to find the bright side or some deeper lesson in a week like this. Tonight, I am just thankful that tomorrow is Sunday. Thankful for a new day. A new week.  A morning with my church family.  And also, of course, that the slug has been swiftly and summarily squished and disposed of.