Some dead rubbish things go on in life. Finding out your tax disc is due for renewal; letting your soup boil over in the microwave; realising you've had a small bogie peeping out of your nose during a job interview.
But without a doubt, sitting proudly atop the Completely Crap Tree is going back to work after the a holiday.
But. As a parent, if you search really, really hard, there is something that is A-C-T-U-A-L-L-Y GOOD about a return to work.
You have to really want to see it.
Going back to work makes you remember, realise, fully appreciate, how absolutely quite lovely being with your child is. Being in work means that you don't have to change five nappies a day, trip over toys incessantly or pretend to be mega enthusiastic about being shown the same toy/book/bit of fluff off the floor continually throughout the day. It means that you don't have to fight with her in order to get her to have a lunchtime nap, you don't have to be involved in any of the excruciating monotony that is the washing and sterilising of bottles, and you don't have to listen to her whinge because you won't let her play with a chainsaw.
You just get this.
A beautiful little happy person, waiting for you at home. You walk in to smiling eyes that wondered where you went, but carried on playing all the same. Never is The Poop more beautiful, more fascinating, more intelligent, or more amazing than on the days I work.
She's sneaky. Turns it on I reckon. Milks it. Practises being all cute and adorable all day while I'm out, then catches me, off guard and already feeling guilty when I get home and...POW...own way all evening.
Gorgeous little sod.