Shit just got real in the Blues’ household.
A few days ago, while squatting to fish out from under the couch two rogue nuts trying to escape my TV-Drama binge session, it finally happened. The right leg of my favorite jeans ripped in that notorious spot on the thigh where I don’t have a gap. Where I have a cute meat bun who loves to rub against his twin brother on the other side and so rub rub rub, sooner than later, fabric disintegration will always set in.
Normally (and by “normally” I mean before pregnancy and 14 months of motherhood), I would just be cross, toss the darn trousers away, wear any other pair from my small but juicy collection and go out for some well-deserved shopping. This time around though, the lesion in the jeans’ tissue proved to be much more than just a hole in a pair of old pants. It initiated a vortex of a butterfly effect with wings big as a cinereous vulture which sucked me into a spiral of discouragement and gloom.
In order for you to grasp the scale of it, I have a confession to make: Continue reading