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Eventually, Miss Congeniality joined me and suggested we go outside. Not a bad idea, I thought. The weather's just about perfect. Maybe a little sunshine-induced vitamin D and fresh air would do me some good. It would definitely be better for Clara Jane than hanging around the house with a mother who can barely get off the bed.

With the dogs in tow and a magazine in hand, we headed outside. Clara Jane grabbed her wheel barrow and started filling it with the unripe peaches that have already fallen from the tree. I drug one of our big Adirondack chairs into the shade, not looking directly at its faded wood because that would remind me of the big plans I had for painting the chairs and making snappy little cushions for them, covered in vintage oilcloth. I didn't want to think about yet another unfinished project on my list, one more thing that I can't summon the energy to complete, one more thing that will lead to me feeling like a failure who can't do a damn thing right.

With my unpainted, uncushioned chair parked in the shade, magazine in hand, child sufficiently occupied, I tried to turn my thoughts to brighter subjects. It's a beautiful day. I've got a bit of time to just hang out and relax. There's plenty to be thankful for.

Hey there Mr. Birdy. Mr. Dead Birdy, smashed flat and lying about a foot away from me.

Son of a fucking bitch.

How can I be expected to enjoy the article about the Yeah Yeah Yeahs with the shaded sun on my pastey flesh when there's a smashed-flat dead bird festered so close, feathers asunder, right there by the kiddie pool?

I'm not good with dead things. Not good at all. They freak my shit out. This particular dead thing rendered me unable to do anything but stand there and stare. I could make out the form of the bird's skull, picked clean, several tiny bones crushed. Remnants of his wings poked in all directions, feathers matted and oily. What the hell am I going to do with this?

I tried sitting in my chair and ignoring it, but that didn't work. I returned to standing over the bird and staring some more, willing it to not be there, willing my life to not be one dead bird obstacle after another in my path.

Clara Jane noticed how intently I was staring at the ground. Afraid that my attention might be occupied by something other than her, she came over and took up residence in my line of vision - standing directly on Dead Bird Ground Zero. "Clara Jane, I need you to move," I said.

"No." That's what she says to everything these days. "No!" In case I hadn't heard her the first time.

"I mean it. Move. Go play on your slide for a minute."

"No."

That's when I noticed the ground beneath Clara Jane's feet was alive, squirming with hoards of maggots that were feasting on the bird. I hadn't noticed them before despite my staring.

As I picked her up and marched her across the yard, screaming and protesting all the way, I thought, at least I put her in pants and her rubber frog boots instead of shorts and sandals. At least I did something right, even on the day when my actions led to my child standing on in a puddle of rotted flesh and vermin.

I grabbed a shovel and plunged it into the ground at the edge of the bird, digging deep. Trembling, I carried the spade, full of death and life, to the fence and tossed it over. Not in the neighbors' yard, even though you know that would have brightened my mood a bit. I returned to the depression in the ground, dug up the chunk of dirt where a few maggots remained, and flung the second shovelful over the fence.

I didn't bother sitting in the chair in the shade. Even though I really dislike being in direct sunlight, I opted for the chair in the sun, away from the scene of whatever foul play, probably hound-inflicted, befell that bird. While I hate squinting and sweating, I hate feeling like I'm covered in maggots even more.

Clara Jane forgot about the bird immediately, assuming she even had an inkling of what was going on in the first place. In her mind, I was probably having yet another inexplicable meltdown. She continued playing with the hard green peaches, sliding down the slide, running with the dogs while I read. Eventually she came up to me and said, "Mama, I need to carry." Translated, that means, "I don't feel like walking. Haul me, Pack Mule." When I picked her up she looked at me and said, "I give you a hug." She flung her arms around me and said, "Awwwwwwww. I give you a kiss."

"Thanks Kid. I needed that," I told her. I really did.

At least I've got a kid who, in a string of days where she's done nothing but yell and demand and scream and deny, knows when I could use a little bit of her affection.

At least I've got things better than that maggoty bird.

Two things that can make me feel a smidge better: 1)The photography of Caitlin Atkinson, who's done a series of photos depicting all the things she's done wrong. It's heartening, really. 2)Finding one of the episodes of "Laverne & Shirley" that involves a Schotz Brewery talent show. If there is better television than the "Laverne & Shirlety" Schotz talent show episodes, I've yet to find it.