I love words. I eat them up. I've often compared reading to eating.
Ooh! Speaking of breakfast, I have a story for you. Without further ado,
of which there has not been much but I am now making more of, I will
tell you the story.
My son spilled his juice at breakfast.
There. Don't you pity me? Poor mum! Her kid spilled his juice.
When
you put words together to form sentences (and, is often the case on
this blog, fragments) it is quite interesting. And sometimes, as in the
above example, not. I was chatting with a friend and mentioned that my
son spilled his juice. It wasn't a very interesting
story. It wasn't a story at all, actually. This made me realize
for the first time in my life how important words are. No, it didn't. I
know that. But it did make me think about how I don't often get the
whole story out when I'm talking. This is just another reason
I love writing. And why you are about to be subjected to my morning.
Here's what happened at breakfast.
I
didn't get enough sleep last night. I just wanted some coffee. Really,
that's all I wanted out of my morning. Just as I sat down, my son
knocked his cup of juice over. A cup filled with dark, red
Strawberry-Banana juice. And when I say "filled", I mean he hadn't taken
a sip. And when I say "dark", I'm talking blood red. It was everywhere.
There were puddles on the table, his chair, and the floor. His shirt,
pants, and socks were soaked. There were splatters on the walls, my
husband's computer, and my other son's chair (across the table). We're
still finding spots. This kid is ten years old. We have been telling him
for, oh, I don't know, five years, three times a day, not to put his
cup near the edge of the table or next to his elbow. Why? So he doesn't
spill the damn thing and turn the room into a crime scene. Let's round
that number down and call it an even 5,400 times we've told him this. And here I am talking about another spill. Needless to
say, I didn't get my coffee until after I had sopped up lakes of juice
and scrubbed spots off the walls.
See what words
do? If you don't
pity me now, I'm not sure what to say. Except that maybe you are too
busy laughing at me. Or that you think I should get over this instead of
blogging about it. I know I should get
over this instead of blogging about it. I'm venting, dammit! Let me
vent. Why is it that these little things dig their way into my nervous
system and make me feel like I've just had an electric shock? Don't cry over spilled milk echoes
in my head as I fume about this "accident". Yet, I want to scream that,
although he didn't do it on purpose, he also doesn't listen and has
these types of accidents often. And, suddenly, it becomes something
more than spilled juice.
I recently wrote a post about why I write
and included that I need to vent and writing is a superb way to do
it. This is one of those times. If you've made it this far, huzzah! Now
you can stop reading about my kid and his juice and say to yourself,
"Self, this post was boring and ridiculous. I could have written it
better. Hey, maybe I will. Why just this morning..."
What happened that you want to vent about? Instead of reaching for the phone, write it down. Try it. You might like it.
Are You Kidding Me?!
