Yesterday was a super chitty, stress-filled byotch of a day.

The day before it was worse.

The cumulative effect of which spiked a headache that became a crown of tension wrapped around my skull.

When I arrived home from work the house was in an uproar. The cookies that she and her dad were making had dried cranberries. She didn't want them in hers.

No one is happy. Mama, least of all.

Fighting was everywhere. From every angle. No one can disengage.

"I'm making these cookies the way I want to and you'll try it or you'll have none."

"Well I'm NOT eating them."
"She's got to learn," he yelled at me, "that things don't always go her way."

"Like it or lump it," he told her.

She didn't understand. Neither did I really. How hard is it to hold out some batter to be cooked plain?

But I did understand it was his kitchen. His rules. To go against it wouldn't be in anyone's best interest when he'd already made the decision.

She told me her tummy hurt.

I told her it was a likely result of tension she was holding from being upset, just like my headache.

I told her yoga might help.

So she and I rolled out our mats and started doing the Alphabet with Marcia Wenig.

She told me, during Moo and Meow, she wasn't feeling any better.

I told her to breathe. Just breathe.

By the time we got to V - for volcano - we were both feeling better.

By Z, it was time for dinner.

And later, she even tried the dessert.

There was calm.

She picked around the cranberries, and declared it ...

"Not so good."

But she didn't make a face.

When she asked for a popsicle.

He gave it to her.

Nobody really won. Nobody really lost. But we were able to make peace.