The Last Bean

When I was a kid, there was a game at my grandparents' house called "Don't Spill The Beans." I really hated that game because it always ended in disaster. The game consisted of a little plastic bucket with a slightly concave lid, which hung suspended between two little plastic posts. So it kind of swung there. There were also a couple of handfuls of beans. You would start out by placing a few beans on the lid of the bucket when it was your turn. As the game progressed, you'd put fewer and fewer beans as the bucket became less stable. By the end, you were meticulously placing one tiny bean at a time on the lid and hoping it didn't cause the whole thing to tip. Eventually, it would tip, spilling beans everywhere, and making the unlucky last bean-placer the loser of the game. I think I cried every time. (I don't like Jenga, either)

Anyway, I think about that game often when life gets frustrating because it's always something small that tips the scale and causes me to go into fits of tears. You know, you start out with all of these things (beans, if you will) to manage and it seems like you can just pile them on and it's no big deal. But as you get more and more, well, it becomes trickier. And in the end, it's not the "scared to death of motherhood" bean or the "c-section" bean or the "good friend in a tight spot" bean or even the "absolutely NO money" bean that gets you. It's the "VACUUM CLEANER BAG EXPLODING IN THE LIVING ROOM" bean. It's not the tragedies. It's the dishes. That's when I say, "This is just the last bean" through tears. And Jon tries to correct me, "Don't you mean, the last straw?" Well, now you all know, I mean the last bean.