Accident.
My children make this face...how should I describe it? It's a mixture of contrition and fear. It's a look that says "remember that you love me, k?"
I see the face peering at me through my office doors, or coming down the hall, or looming over me as I am tucked in bed in the early morning hours and, I'll be honest, my blood runs cold. And my terror is justified because the face is always followed by the phrase...
"Mom, it was an accident..."
Are you hearing some Hitchcockian horror music in your head right now? Me too.
The accidents usually involve gum, glitter, glue or nail polish. It almost always means something has been scratched, maimed or mutilated beyond repair. It often involves my car or something made of glass. But no matter what, it always means I've got a lot of work to do and that work will probably be sticky.
This afternoon after school the children came down to my office. Both wearing pajamas. Both making the face.
Mom: "Why is everyone in pajamas?"
Brynn: "Mom, it was an accident..."
M: "uh huh..."
Grace: "We were just making a snack and we spilled some Gatorade."
M: "uh huh...what did you spill it on?"
G: "the floor."
B: "And my shirt. Oh, and Grace's shirt. But don't worry. We cleaned it up."
M: "What did you use to clean it up?"
B: "One of your towels."
M: "Which towel?"
G: "I think it was the one Grandma gave you for your birthday."
(The one Grandma gave me for my birthday was a dish towel of hers that I loved so much. She looked and looked for another and when she couldn't find one, she took it out of the drawer, wrapped it up and give it to me. That's love people.)
M: "What color is the Gatorade?" [deep in my heart I already know, because let's be honest, nothing bad ever happens with yellow gatorade.]
B/G: [quietly] "red"
*face palm* *head desk*
White towel. White shirt. Cream shirt. Red Gatorade. Sad Mommy.
Tonight I think I'll call my mom and tell her about the towel. And of course, in the spirit of children everywhere, I will begin with "Mom, it was an accident..."
I see the face peering at me through my office doors, or coming down the hall, or looming over me as I am tucked in bed in the early morning hours and, I'll be honest, my blood runs cold. And my terror is justified because the face is always followed by the phrase...
"Mom, it was an accident..."
Are you hearing some Hitchcockian horror music in your head right now? Me too.
The accidents usually involve gum, glitter, glue or nail polish. It almost always means something has been scratched, maimed or mutilated beyond repair. It often involves my car or something made of glass. But no matter what, it always means I've got a lot of work to do and that work will probably be sticky.
This afternoon after school the children came down to my office. Both wearing pajamas. Both making the face.
Mom: "Why is everyone in pajamas?"
Brynn: "Mom, it was an accident..."
M: "uh huh..."
Grace: "We were just making a snack and we spilled some Gatorade."
M: "uh huh...what did you spill it on?"
G: "the floor."
B: "And my shirt. Oh, and Grace's shirt. But don't worry. We cleaned it up."
M: "What did you use to clean it up?"
B: "One of your towels."
M: "Which towel?"
G: "I think it was the one Grandma gave you for your birthday."
(The one Grandma gave me for my birthday was a dish towel of hers that I loved so much. She looked and looked for another and when she couldn't find one, she took it out of the drawer, wrapped it up and give it to me. That's love people.)
M: "What color is the Gatorade?" [deep in my heart I already know, because let's be honest, nothing bad ever happens with yellow gatorade.]
B/G: [quietly] "red"
*face palm* *head desk*
White towel. White shirt. Cream shirt. Red Gatorade. Sad Mommy.
Tonight I think I'll call my mom and tell her about the towel. And of course, in the spirit of children everywhere, I will begin with "Mom, it was an accident..."
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