It was going to be one of those days.

One of those days when I was cranky. Short-tempered. Not a very nice mommy to my daughter.

I could blame it on hormones. Or I could blame it on a lurking migraine. But I certainly couldn't blame it on my daughter.

I'm the adult in this relationship. I'm the mom. I'm the responsible one and it was up to me to determine the tone--my tone--for the day.

So, after snapping at Christa for the second time, I apologized again and decided enough was enough. I could let my irritableness  rule the day, or I could shred my To Do list, give up my expectations (there's that word again!) for they day, and focus on being a nice mommy.

I read her books. I let her bang on the piano--the same three keys over and over again. I let her watch some television and play some computer games. And I chose not to yell. Chose not to give into my emotions. Chose to consider my daughter to be more important than how I was feeling.

And--when my twenty-year old showed up to take Christa to lunch, I thanked her profusely, crawled back in bed and took a nap. Maybe the next time I woke up, I'd get up on the right side of the bed.