The Healing Power of Five Little Ducks

I've been angry. Not outwardly angry, but angry nonetheless. Getting stabbed in the back by an ex-business partner sucks balls.

And that's where I've been. Pissed. Furious. Dreaming up not-very-nice, not-very-constructive and not-very-grown-up ways to deal with the situation (usually involving toilet paper, eggs or both).

No matter how mad you get with circumstances in your life, though, there They are. I find myself always thinking of the better way to do the better thing. The better way to deal with stress. The better way to handle the unexpected and unfortunate. The better way to...live. I don't know if I actually better myself by this constant barrage of betterment. Most of the time, it ends up producing more stress.

And then there are moments like this morning. No rushing to get to school this a.m. Was up early, got dressed at a leisurely pace. Had breakfast. Drank my coffee. Even had time for a book with M. It's a beautiful fall day so decide, since we have time, to walk to school.

"Let's sing a song Mama!"

"What should we sing?"

"Five little ducks."

I start the chorus...

"Five little ducks went out to play..."

"Over the hills and far away.."

I pushed J as M skipped alongside -- happy to be walking to school and singing with her mommy.

I didn't want the song to end. So, we kept going. We sang it again and followed up with Where is Thumbkin?, ABCs, and This Old Man. The two of us belted out the songs with a passion and verve not commonly seen in either of us before 10 a.m.
(It should be noted that M taught me the words to all these songs. My personal catalog of children's songs is woefully lacking. Case in point: I've been known to sing her Lady GaGa before bed.)

With every word, every note, I felt the frustration I'd been holding onto over the last few weeks, dissipating...at least a little.
Losing money sucks. Feeling like a chump sucks even more. But, when you get down to it, this is life. Singing Five Little Ducks on the way to preschool. Simple and easy as pie.

And as I skipped along with M, pushing the stroller with not a care in the world, I was thankful. Thankful for what I have instead of dwelling on what I've lost. Who knew my four-year-old was the one who actually knew the real better way?

Thanks, M.