my haagen daze

Tuesday was an amazing day. Simply amazing. I'd had a nice long weekend and was energized when I returned to work on Tuesday morning.  That afternoon I had a nice, healthy lunch which I ran down eight flights of stairs to purchase, before running back up eight flights of stairs to my office ... instead of taking the elevator.  I drank no less than 64 ounces of water and felt refreshed.  By 3:30, I'd accomplished everything I'd wanted to accomplish that day, so I left work to meet Charlie and the children at the gym. My husband and I worked out, while the children ran around and played basketball. We came home and enjoyed dinner as a family. In the evening I patiently did homework with children and enthusiastically applauded their awesomeness in learning.  The kids were in bed, sleeping soundly by 8:30. As they slept, I sat down and tried to write a post that has been on my mind.

Then came Wednesday.  

On the heels of a great day came a not-so-great day. Probably because I was up too late the night before, on Wednesday morning I overslept which means the children overslept.  After having been tardy 16 times this school year, we vowed that we would be tardy NO MORE.  So we were in a frazzled state as we ran about looking for shoes, library books and other second grade school necessities. I arrived at work almost an hour later than normal because the traffic which had been virtually absent on Tuesday was in full force on Wednesday.  With back-to-back meetings, I skipped lunch and instead ate a squashed banana that was at the bottom of my purse. I never once took the stairs and didn't drink nearly enough water throughout the day. When I came home, I couldn't get through a single page of homework without putting my head on the table and moaning. Once the children were in bed, I thought that because I'd had such challenging day, I deserved a little pick me up.  If you could compress heaven in to a pint-size, it would look like this:

I'm quietly savoring my rare heavenly treat when Charlie arrives on the scene and upon seeing me polishing off the entire contents of my itty bitty tiny little pint, advises me that 1 pint = 3.5 servings or the caloritic equivalent of three hours on the treadmill.

OK. So some days are like that. 

But to my beloved, every so often, it's just best to not say anything. Or, better yet, don't even bring that stuff in to the house in the first place because the only way I could eat one serving... 

Is if this was my serving spoon.