Tonight, I threw a burnt grilled cheese sandwich (and when I say burnt it, I mean I whiffled it from across the kitchen with all the power in my body) into the sink before muttering out a slew of four-letter words while I rage-ran around my kitchen reaching for bread, mayo, and more cheese so I could make the grilled cheese sandwiches that needed to be made 15 minutes earlier.

And then, I laugh-cried while F laughed quite uncontrollably over the fact that there was a grilled cheese sandwich, absolutely mangled, sitting in the sink. Because his mommy threw it there.

It’s amazing how the little things can be the ones that totally knock us off our feet. It’s been a long few weeks – heck, MONTHS – and yet, it was a grilled cheese sandwich that totally broke me tonight.

I was late getting home. I sat in traffic. The car in front of me didn’t know how left turns worked, and so he didn’t turn and we missed the light. I rushed F into the apartment, into his swimming trunks and raced to the kitchen to try to get something cooked up. I needed comfort food. Grilled cheese sandwiches would cure all.

Work emails started flooding in. Where’s this? Where’s that? Have you looked at this? What’s the status on this and this and that? What does this mean? And I stood at the stove, trying to do too many things at once: the reality of the modern working mom. Phone in one hand, spatula in the other. How did this become reality? And why the heck did I book swimming lessons on Mondays at 6:30pm? WHY?

And then I realized that the bad smell and black smoke were coming from the pan in front of me. Crap. Desperately hoping I could rescue it, I threw my phone on the counter and reached for the pan. As soon as I lifted the bread I knew the only thing saving this sandwich was an exorcism and with the ferocity of months of frustration, I pitched a piping hot cheese-filled sandwich into my sink.

Throwing food is therapeutic. Cleaning up the melty cheese is not.