My 10 year old son is clumsy. Not clumsy in a 'fally-over' kind of way, more of a 'just not paying attention' kind of way. He drops/knocks over drinks, spills milk out the cereal bowl, splats people in the face while being some weird character or another, randomly kicks people in the head while being a
kung foo expert, that sort of thing. Honestly, it’s fairly regular in our house to find him holding his face, having *smacked* himself right on the schnoz with a door, or, indeed, stand on his own foot. No one is EVER surprised.
Knowing this, it came as no shock that, just as I served up our feast of meatballs and spaghetti onto the plates, he took his and promptly walked straight into the open fridge door which the over-dramatic, hormone fired one had vigorously flung open and was in the process of reaching in for the orange juice.
The plateful of food slid, very quickly actually, onto the floor, followed, very shortly, by the orange juice, which had departed from my daughter's fingers with the rebound from the door.
We all 3 just stood there, looking at this meatball party, wondering what the hell just happened. Indeed, I believe those were my very words. “What. The Hell. Just happened?” Yep, that was it. That is what I said.
I was met with the obligatory chorus of…”It wasn’t me, it wasn’t my fault”. My first thought was to grab the pair of them by the hair on the backs of their heads and shove their faces…….no. No. Breath. The tears were welling up….in their eyes, probably in mine too. I’d had a helluva day.
Silently, I started to clean up the mess. You know how you do…..willing them not to speak. Because IF they speak to me, they know that Death Mummy will break out into the calm, albeit wreck, of the kitchen, so they silently skulked away.
It was really quite impressive the lengths that the tomato sauce had gone to to escape. It was up the fridge, the washing machine, the kickboards, next door’s cat…..the only happy character that was around at that moment was the pup. He was ecstatically pleased.
We saved the meatballs, as they were sitting, quite perkily, on top of the intestinal spaghetti mess. It resembled a kind of alien slaughter house.
Coincidentally, my son had had meatballs at school that day, so he was ok with his little robin’s nest of spaghetti, 4 meatballs and no sauce, apart from the odd splash of orange juice. I think he was secretly pretty chuffed he didn’t have to eat tomatoes! He then decided that he should have 2 puddings to make up for the lack of grub, until I pointed out that, actually, he was lucky to still be alive and eating ONE pudding. He ate his one pudding, glancing at me, every now and again from the corner of his eye. I think he was still waiting for me to pounce on him.
The mutt’s poop was flaming red for sometime after…..
Knowing this, it came as no shock that, just as I served up our feast of meatballs and spaghetti onto the plates, he took his and promptly walked straight into the open fridge door which the over-dramatic, hormone fired one had vigorously flung open and was in the process of reaching in for the orange juice.
The plateful of food slid, very quickly actually, onto the floor, followed, very shortly, by the orange juice, which had departed from my daughter's fingers with the rebound from the door.
We all 3 just stood there, looking at this meatball party, wondering what the hell just happened. Indeed, I believe those were my very words. “What. The Hell. Just happened?” Yep, that was it. That is what I said.
I was met with the obligatory chorus of…”It wasn’t me, it wasn’t my fault”. My first thought was to grab the pair of them by the hair on the backs of their heads and shove their faces…….no. No. Breath. The tears were welling up….in their eyes, probably in mine too. I’d had a helluva day.
Silently, I started to clean up the mess. You know how you do…..willing them not to speak. Because IF they speak to me, they know that Death Mummy will break out into the calm, albeit wreck, of the kitchen, so they silently skulked away.
It was really quite impressive the lengths that the tomato sauce had gone to to escape. It was up the fridge, the washing machine, the kickboards, next door’s cat…..the only happy character that was around at that moment was the pup. He was ecstatically pleased.
We saved the meatballs, as they were sitting, quite perkily, on top of the intestinal spaghetti mess. It resembled a kind of alien slaughter house.
Coincidentally, my son had had meatballs at school that day, so he was ok with his little robin’s nest of spaghetti, 4 meatballs and no sauce, apart from the odd splash of orange juice. I think he was secretly pretty chuffed he didn’t have to eat tomatoes! He then decided that he should have 2 puddings to make up for the lack of grub, until I pointed out that, actually, he was lucky to still be alive and eating ONE pudding. He ate his one pudding, glancing at me, every now and again from the corner of his eye. I think he was still waiting for me to pounce on him.
The mutt’s poop was flaming red for sometime after…..