Some mornings, I get up and the sun is shining and the birds are singing, and the William Tell Overture is floating softly through the hills.

Like in this video:

But some mornings things go awry right from the get-go.

Like this morning when I heard the baby waking up and I promptly went to the kitchen to prepare a delicious wholesome bottle for the child. I would let the bottle warm while I went to his room to greet him, William Tell emanating from the very earth around us. I would change his diaper and freshen his bottom before he had a chance to fret. He would smile at his daddy. I would smile back. He would smile again.

I pulled the bottle out of the fridge and in one swift motion the damn thing slipped from my grasp and propelled itself toward the floor like a Grade-A-Vitamin-D-Added-Homogenized Kamikaze!

“Oh, fffffffffffudge!!!!!!”

“Only I didn’t say fudge. I said THE word. The big one. The queen mother of dirty words. The F-dash-dash-dash word.”

Like this:

I threw up my hands in defeat. Then I threw in the towel. Literally. Hell, I threw in multiple towels.

The baby? Oh, he went back to sleep for another hour.

I don’t blame him.

This situation reminds me of “Super Moist Fat Tuesday.” Incidentally, I have a migraine as I did that day too. Spilling copious amounts of liquids must be a migraine symptom. I’m good at it, apparently.