When Michael and I were newlyweds, our town welcomed a Hastings, in a large new building on Ninth Street by the auto parts store. We signed up for a membership and frequented the store—an inviting combination of books, coffee shop, and rows upon rows of DVDs to rent or buy. One evening we casually browsed books—I especially remember the prominent cookbook section with its bright colors—and wandered into the children’s book area.

“Hey, it’s Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day,” Michael said, pulling out a thin, blue book. “My high school English teacher read this to us.”

I took the book and opened to the first page, where a black-and-white illustration shows a small boy in pajamas, resignation on his face. I read aloud:

“I went to sleep with gum in my mouth and now there’s gum in my hair and when I got out of bed this morning I tripped on the skateboard and by mistake I dropped my sweater in the sink while the water was running and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.”

“That’s awful!” I said, as I turned the page and silently read on. The story continued in similar style, as Alexander suffered through the day. His teacher said he left out sixteen at counting time, the dentist found a cavity in his teeth but not in his two brothers’ teeth, there were lima beans for dinner, and during his too-hot bath he got soap in his eye and his marble went down the drain. Each page featured run-on sentences detailing the disappointments of childhood.

“Wow,” I said, handing the book back to Michael. “I don’t like it at all. Why would someone write a book like that?”

Michael looked slightly amused by my passionate reaction.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to hit me the same way it hits you.”

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Fast forward nearly 20 years. Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day is one of my favorite children’s books. This change illustrates the undoing and remaking of my inner landscape, especially after becoming a mother 11 years ago. Newlywed Me believed the world was a happy place and sadness was fixable. Late-30s Me prefers Glennon Doyle’s word “brutiful” to describe the world, and has mostly given up on trying to fix sadness. Newlywed Me thought children’s books should have color pictures, cheerful stories, and favorable endings. Late-30’s Me appreciates pencil and ink illustrations, stories of struggle, and inconclusive endings. Newlywed Me didn’t want to believe any day could be bad from start to finish. Late-30’s Me agrees with Alexander’s mother, that “some days are like that. Even in Australia.” Newlywed Me felt a sense of injustice when Alexander’s best friend rejected him, and when he got in trouble for being muddy after one brother made him fall in the mud and the other brother called him a crybaby. Late-30’s Me knows that friendship is fragile, and sometimes you get scolded for things that aren’t your fault.

Alexander suffered through his day. I suffered through the drudgery of stay-at-home-momming. Throughout the book, as Alexander voices his desires and frustrations, no one listens, and no one answers. Throughout the early years of parenting, I felt unseen and unheard.

On a piece of old electrical wiring sticking out of the wall in my unfinished home office hangs a “medal,” swag from a 5k I walked/ran with friends in 2021. It features a glittering butterfly above the words, “It’s okay to not be okay.” I first saw those words in traffic, painted on a car window at the intersection of Ninth and Rose. They gave me a permission I had needed for a long time: permission to not be okay, to be unable to fix my mind or my marriage or the bathroom formica that is partially detached from the countertop. I think it was Anne Lamott who wrote, “Everything is so not okay.” I agree.

Sometimes I get to fix things, and I like that. Most of the time I don’t, and I’m learning that a bleeding world feels much friendlier when I know “some days are like that,” some relationships are like that, some religions are like that, and one load of laundry containing the entire wardrobe of a baby can take an hour to fold.

Alexander was not happy when he went to bed that evening. The day ended much as it began:

“When I went to bed Nick took back the pillow he said I could keep and the Mickey Mouse night light burned out and I bit my tongue. The cat wants to sleep with Anthony, not with me. It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.”

I am moved to laughter and tears, and most of all, relief. Some things in life simply call for a negative, bleak, too-long, awful sad list of adjectives.

If you’re not familiar with the Alexander books, this youtube video is a lovely read-aloud of Judith Viorst’s book that inspired today’s blog post.

Alexander, Who Used to Be Rich Last Sunday is another favorite.

Special thanks to my husband, Michael, for the idea to write on this topic.