I realize that this blog has gotten pretty schmaltzy lately. All misty-eyed posts about my sweet, soon-to-be baby boy and the miracle of adoption… That’s bound to continue, so brace yourself. But today I will share a not-so-sentimental moment in my day.
It was supposed to be a special treat. C picked out pop for our Mother’s Day picnic: a 12 pack of Vanilla Root Beer Float. Yes, it was every bit as sweet and disgusting as you are imagining, and I LIKE root beer. But the kids were thrilled. And halfway to sugar coma by the end of a can. And prepared to crown Dad the shopping King of the Universe.
The real problem was finding a place to keep the rest of the case. We never seem to have quite enough shelf space in the kitchen. As I played pantry jenga to find a spot, disaster struck!
I lifted the box above my head and started pushing it onto the top shelf, when the box broke. One by one the cans fell down, hit me in the head (ouch) and hurtled to the ground. As they hit the floor, several burst open, skittering around the entire room, spraying root beer everywhere. All over the floor, the cupboards, the walls, the ceiling, and yes, me!
My children have never moved up the stairs so quickly. Apparently “Girls, dinner’s ready!” does not have the same draw as “Aaaaaaahhhhhhh! Noooooooooooooo!”
As I stood there covered in a sticky film, looking at my white floors and cupboards, now speckled biege, with a small sea of soda in the corner, I had two choices: laugh or cry.
I did both.
My children simply laughed until they cried. In the end, I’m pretty sure they cried only because all but one of the cans of root beer were wasted.
Perhaps this is housekeeping karma coming to collect. I don’t wash my floors nearly often enough. I had to mop the kitchen three times to eliminate the tackiness (in retrospect, the steam mop was a bad idea – it just evenly distributed the sticky).
At this point, I generally insert a “moral of the story” here. Something profound and spiritually meaningful. Today, I’ve got nothing.
Into every life, a little root beer must fall.
So here’s me, realizing that root beer isn’t as great for the skin as you might think. I now have a rash on my legs. I’m itchy, I’m tired and my kitchen is STILL sticky. But it’s a good story, and I’m always in the market for one of those.
Do you have a good story of things gone terribly wrong? I’m eager to share the misery…