I stand in the kitchen, cheeks hot with shame, eyes barely holding back tears, and I stir.  I stir the dinner that simmers on the stove—just like I stirred the pot with my husband as I simmered in the laundry room just a few moments earlier.  I vigorously mix the food and little bits of sauce splash out of the pan—just like I carelessly mixed all my frustrations of the day, allowing them to spill over into the busy night we had planned.   It’s a Wednesday evening and it’s been one of those days.  You know, the kind of day where every little thing seems to go sideways?  The…