Writing, Venting, & Not Crying Over Spilled Milk

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.

A Day of Green…That’s All

I never really celebrated St. Patrick's Day.

I remember wearing green to school when I was little. My mom would sometimes put my hair up in two, long blonde pigtails and tie green ribbons around them. Other than that, I don't think I did anything out of the ordinary on that day. Although...I seem to vaguely remember a green Care Bear with a shamrock on his tummy that I paid special attention to that day. Maybe I brought him to school? I also could be making that up or confusing it with another popular 80s toy that was green and had a shamrock somewhere on it.

I also thought Leprechauns were neat. Little magical people with rainbows and gold? What's not to like? I colored my share of them with green jackets and tiny black top hats.

Oh, yes, and the school cafeteria handed out our milk cartons (which looked normal) with no indication that, when you finally got the damn thing ripped open, the sloshing liquid inside was a putrid pea color. It tasted like milk but, honestly, gross.

That must have been the precursor to the green beer I was always served on St. Patrick's Day if I was stupid enough to join the mob of if-I-drink-enough-maybe-my-puke-will-be-green guests visiting the bars every March 17.

Green beer...yummy.

This is a decidedly Christian holiday celebrating, um, what’s his name. That saint. But, like many holidays, it has long since been celebrated as a secular feast and drink-fest. So, regardless of your religion, on March 17, everyone is Irish, wears green, and loves beer.

Kids cut out shamrocks and wear green. Adults drink beer and wear green. And, well, that’s kind of it.    

Creepy Strangers with Candy

I wrote a post about giving treats to kids without consulting the parents. It was a necessary message. I can’t believe I’m back talking about this issue again (with one tiny variation). The other post asked ever-so-nicely if people would please address the parent instead of the child with the question. Now I’m here to ask ever-so-nicely if you would stop giving treats to children AT ALL if you’re not going to ask ANYONE.

Public service announcement #3

Since you’re not even asking the child never mind the parent (who you should be asking), I can’t help but think that this gift-giving thing isn’t as much for my kid as it is for you. Shoving a treat at a child and saying, “Here you go!” is stupid and selfish. For some reason, you desperately need to do this thing and don’t care if A) the child wants it and B) the parent wants him to have it. Also, you are a stranger and this is a child. Unlike my last PSA, where I berated you mentioned that you should probably ask the parents before you give something to their kid, I’m now saying (and I can’t believe I have to say it) that if you’re not going to ask anyone, then just don’t do it.

Is this left over Halloween candy people want to get rid of?

Bifurcating, Pastries, and Nevada

Conversations with my 7-year-old.

“Hey! You bifurcated my pop tart.”

I look up from my coffee. “Oh.”

“Do you know what that means?”

I really wish I did but, in truth, I don’t and so I say that. “No, I don't.”

“It means you broke it in a little part here and a huge part here. It's split.” He points to the bifurcated bits of pastry. “Look—it’s totally uneven!”

“I see that. Sorry.”

“It’s just that you usually bisect it into even parts, like, in half.”

I just look at him, my mind whirring, thinking that the next chance I get I’m going to bolt out of my chair, run to my computer, and google “bifurcate”. I have no idea what to say. He doesn’t seem all that upset. I just say “sorry” again. I haven't had my coffee and it's all I can say.

“It’s okay. It’s just weird. But, hey!” He holds the larger piece up to me and says, “The bigger part looks exactly like Nevada!”

It really does.