The house is a mess.
There are flies buzzing around my head as I type because Monica left the door open.
I went to put expensive professional pics into a frame and found them mangled on the floor by the pint-sized subject of aforementioned photos.
Monica started whining for the 37th time that she wanted Daddy to come home.
I snapped and, while pacing anxiously about my toy littered house, said, rather rudley, that Daddy will be home when he gets home and not a minute sooner.
"Want a raisin, Mama?"
And, with a little dried fruit and a smile, all the stress melts and you realize what really matters.