Like Fuzzy Socks or Potato Chips

You know, life isn't fair. My kids told me. In fact, they tell me that one thing or another isn't fair, according to their calculations, on an average of twice a day. Today, for example, Fourth Grader concluded that it wasn't fair that she only got to snowboard for four hours. And then it wasn't fair that I expected her to read an entire chapter of her book before she could zone out watching television. It's just not fair, you know?

Sometimes the only thing a girl can hope for is a little comfort. Comfort food, comfort clothes, comfort vodka...obviously, these are forms of comfort for me, not for Fourth Grader. But forget Fourth Grader for a minute. This is about me, and I have been in dire need of some comfort recently. And after giving all three of the above options a go over the weekend, I still wasn't really feeling comforted. In fact, by eleven this morning I was feeling downright miserable. There wasn't any real reason for my misery - other than the fact that it's winter, and the view out the window is cold and gray and dreary. And the fact that the Tornadoes' father plans to grace them with his rare presence in a week's time, regardless of the fact that it is not convenient for anyone but him. And the fact that Sixth Grader and I had an insanely frustrating exchange last night that left us both in tears and me feeling like I possibly didn't matter to anyone at all for any reason.

...And also, I have to sell my house. I don't mind selling my house, but I do mind all the work that will be involved in doing so. Conveniently for my misery, I met with the stager this morning at ten. This was enough to seal the deal - on my misery, that is - and to nearly send me running for the nearest bag of Cape Cod Robust Russets. Window treatments on rooms where I didn't feel the need for them while I've lived here? Really? Renting furniture to fill a room that I have always hated and rarely enter? This is what the real estate market has come to?

Sometimes, in these situations, a few comforting words are enough to do the trick to start turning things around. And this afternoon I heard them. Standing in the snow at the base of a mountain, watching a disgruntled Sixth Grader and her disgruntled friends do my bidding by escorting Fourth Grader up a hill only slightly more difficult than the beginner's slope - and therefore not worthy of them and their mad snowboarding skills, this seemed to be the general nature of their disgruntledness - I found myself on the listening end of a fellow mother's expression of frustration.

"I don't think I'm going to survive this age," she sighed. The age in question being that of the sixth grade posse. What? You mean, I'm not alone? You mean, my Sixth Grader is not the only one who is occasionally possessed by demons? My parenting is not broken? LIFE ISN'T FAIR TO OTHER PEOPLE EITHER?

As pathetic as I'm sure it sounds, I felt a million times better after hearing that one simple sentence from my fellow mother. It was just so incredibly reassuring. I practically skipped. But I didn't skip, because it was really slippery out there in the snow. So I simply invited the nice, comforting woman to call me sometime if she wanted to compare notes on the "joys" of tweenhood. I'll bring the chips.