I made it until 5:45 pm today before I broke down into an ugly cry.

The culprits: a jar of spaghetti sauce, a long line at Target and a broken hand scanner…

When put upon a long day, a rush to try to keep it all normal, a near-empty gas tank in the morning, a teenager who thought he needed some things for a project that he didn’t and who answers every text with “Ok.”

When put upon grief.

My friend, Grief, is a shape shifter.  But what I know is, when Grief comes, Grief wants all my attention or at least all of my energy.

To get through my day, I go on autopilot.  I can have things on my schedule, but my schedule becomes rigid and I become laser-focused.  I just have to get through the day and it will be over.

Just get through the day.

So when my husband texted me to ask if I could pick up some spaghetti sauce on the way home (when what I really wanted to was to go to the sushi happy hour next to the cafe where I was working) because it was spaghetti night, we’re on an austerity budget right now and we were nearly out of sauce, I felt just some kinda way.

But, because I’m me, I said that it was no problem.  We’d already left our parking space next to sushi and had JUST passed a Target.  There was another one on the way home.

We were almost there when my son told me he needed gears for a science project.  This is the second time in two weeks that, at the last minute, he has surprised me with a need for said “group science project.”

We go in and split up. I get things for dinner. My son doesn’t find gears. We get in line.

There are 2 open check stands and 3 open self-checks.  I hate self-checks. I believe in keeping people employed.

But I am about to lose my cool. I can feel it.

Finally, a self-check opens. I scan our things.

The hand scanner that will allow me to pay on my Target wallet is broken. I don’t have my Target card.

I paid full price at Target (this is an insult to my dignity).  I didn’t even get the 1% back from Target circle because I didn’t enter my phone number. I was so thrown off by this broken scanner.

Just get home. Just get home.

I knew when I got home, I would only have an hour to eat and get to choir practice.

I got home.  I walked briskly to my room.

I started sobbing.

I hear through the door the joyful exclamation of my son that, in fact, he didn’t need the gears he thought he needed.

I cry harder.

My husband comes home.  He has been barraged by at least 7 angry texts that are denouncing the insensitivity of putting this errand on me after being with me almost 20 years and knowing I am just trying to survive this day.  He tells me we didn’t really NEED the pasta sauce because there was just enough without it, but he knows I like the pasta with more sauce so he thought he’d ask me to pick it up.

He is sorry. I feel a mix of indignation, anger and regret because I am clear I am overreacting.

I cry harder.

Somewhere, about 30-45 minutes into the cry, I realize that I cannot eat and make it to choir practice. I cannot go to choir practice because if I begin to sing, I will cry.  I look at our song list and think of the songs and start to cry.

Oh, there is so much ugly crying.

I have used a half box of tissue by now (but at least they are lotion tissue).

I text the section leader chain on my text messages. I tell them I can’t make it. The music director asks if I need prayer.  I say yes.  The wave of grief is upon me. It is knocking me down.  I feel like I can’t get up. (I don’t exactly say this, but this is how, in actuality, I am feeling)

I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to do any of the million things I need to do. I just want to cry and feel sorry for myself and make everyone take care of themselves.

My husband texts from the kitchen to see if I want a salad.

Yes, I say, but I’ll come out when I’m ready. Don’t bring it in here.

I don’t want to see them until I’m more ready.

It takes a few more minutes, but then, I breathe. I come out of the room.

My son says he’s sorry.  He doesn’t have that much to be sorry for…just poor timing.  He nods.  He gets it.

My 4-year old who just yesterday would not stop asking for her father, comes up to me and offers me a picture with three hearts that says “Jojo loves Mommy.” She tells me that she didn’t know grown ups could have bad days too.  She tells me I can take the picture to my office so that when I’m sad, I can remember that the family loves me.

I start to get teary again.  I cry some more.  I tell my daughter I need to get some tissue, which I do. My husband is still making the salad.

We make it through dinner. We play a family game.

I breathe.

They leave for a dog walk.

I get a few things done for work.

It is time for my little one to sleep. I tuck her in and wait with her while she falls asleep.

I begin writing.

My son comes out to say goodnight.

My husband draws a bath for me.

My friends check up on me one last time.

Many people I love have sent texts and messages throughout the day.

People keep checking in and sending love.

I feel the prayers covering me.

Grief is still hanging around, but comfortable now in the space.

It is time to disconnect. It is time to sleep.

It is time to make space for tomorrow.