big recharge, the (for lack of a more eloquent phrase) shit hit the fan.
Said fan hitting matter included a broken car AC, a broken refrigerator, a broken (giant, in-wall) salt water aquarium, a sick kiddo, two days of work travel for the hubs, and the passing of our beloved 14-year old cat, Django. Oy vey, friends. It was a bad scene.
And, yet, I did not wig out. Not even once. (Well, maybe once, but it was a teeny, tiny wig out, barely noticeable even). Instead, I counted to ten. I took lots of really, really deep breaths, I prayed, I swore (but in a decidedly cheerful manner), and I made stuff with my girlies.
The counting/breathing/praying/swearing action helped a little, but the making stuff was the real game changer. Getting lost in paint and fabric and ribbon and feathers and what have you was just the salve we needed. Meditation through making. Better than drinking.