Last Wednesday, before went to the hospital, Austin had a crying fit over something inconsequential, like what color spoon I gave him for his yogurt or whether his pants legs appropriately covered his boots. A few hours later, he sat in my arms as two nurses inserted an IV line into his hand and barely let out a whimper. I mean, he didn’t even cry. Mark commented with more awe than frustration about what a big boy he is for the “big” stuff and what a baby he still is for the little things.

Another way the little guy takes after his mother.

I have done a pretty good job keeping it all together since we received Thursday’s news, staying calm and not panicking until we have a real diagnosis. Somehow I manage to be alright with the big stuff. It’s the small stuff that gets me.

We had an Open House yesterday, scheduled to begin at 1. We’d spent the weekend alternately cleaning this house and spackling, sanding, priming and painting at the new house. Sunday morning, we were rushing around mopping floors and hiding toys. While Mark put the finishing touches on the house, I took the kids on a mad dash to multiple stores to buy a new rug for the back hall and some pumpkins to add color to our increasingly bare backyard. I had it all planned out so I would make it home with just enough time to put the shiny new items in their places, make sandwiches for the boys and change my clothes for our afternoon exile. And then Mark called to say our realtor was there and she had switched the start time to 12:15.

Without telling us.

Now, in her defense, I had said we were probably going to be in Chautauqua, a trip that was canceled for illnesses much more common than cancer. But still. A quick email FYI would have gone a long way.

And I lost it. Just went nuts, crying and dropping the f-bomb. I was in the car with the kids in the backseat, yelling to Mark on the phone. Not at Mark. At the realtor, but to Mark. After a pause, he calmly asked if this was about something more than the Open House. And I launched in again: “It doesn’t matter why I’m acting like this. It’s what I feel and I don’t need excuses to justify it! I am tired and I am pissed and I am sick of everything!” So he met me on the corner and took the kids on an extra long trip to the hardware store, while I went to the new house and took deep breaths while stripping wallpaper.

It wasn’t the end of the world, of course. (Although I stand by my insistence that she should have let us know, in town or not.) But I guess I needed some other excuse to let it all out. Sometimes it’s easier to be mad at your realtor for poor communication than to be mad at the universe for making your child sick. A little more concrete of a target, I suppose.

Oh and then, after I’d been hoping that maybe yesterday would be the day we’d get an offer (you know just to create some cosmic balance of good and bad luck),  no one showed up, except some curious neighbors. No one. Ugh.

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