It's been one of those crap days, from beginning to end. You know the kind: you get woken up not by birds chirping merrily but by shrieks of anger by the devil-spawn that have possessed your children.
Got everyone off late to school, multiple trips back to schools to bring things forgotten, fielding phone calls from my mother, shattered glass in the dishwasher, and before I know it the children are home.
Dashing from one sport activity to another, Middlest still raging against the unfairness of the world, and finally home for dinner. Toss some pasta into a dish, cover in sauce, and throw into oven. Eldest has an, ahem, girly issue which requires a quick run to the store for the appropriate products and breaks down in tears over god knows what. Home to find Middlest has decided to pull all the books off the shelves and throw them at her brother. Books scattered all over, crying Eldest, screaming Middlest, and Littlest hiding under the dining table.
In the midst of chaos, the smoke alarm in the kitchen starts to shrill. Rush in to find smoke billowing from the oven.
I pull the charred remains of dinner out of the oven, look around at the disaster of a house, listen as Eldest and Middlest have a screaming match, and promptly burst into tears myself.
Littlest comes out from the under the table, glances at the scorched dinner, and looks up at me, blue eyes wide open and earnest.
"It's okay, Mama, I'm sure however you cooked it, it's absolutely perfect."
He and I took refuge in my room and had ice cream for dinner while we let the teenage girls battle it out elsewhere in the house.