We were finished eating breakfast. Mom and Daddy Jimmy devoured a spread of eggs, grits, bacon, and toast. I had gobbled down cereal in my teddy-bear bowl packed full of marshmallows. As you can see, back then, I was much more concerned about sugar than the essential food groups; but I digress.
It came time to clean up. Mom said I could be her big helper by putting my teddy bear bowl, plate, and cup in the sink. The grownups were in the kitchen doing what I now know is called “adulting.”
Then, Daddy Jimmy mentioned to Mom something I don’t quite remember. And Mom went into the bedroom with a sour look pasted on her face. When Daddy Jimmy followed her into the room and closed the door behind them, that’s when the shouting match swelled into a crescendo.
There was still stuff on the table. Then…eureka! Maybe if I helped clear the table, they’d be so thrilled that they’d stop yelling. We’d all go back to singing Kumbaya. Yes, I know—a three-year old’s logic at its finest.
I was on a mission. I squared my shoulders, marched myself over to the table, and picked up Mom’s glass plate in my petite flanges. I walked super slow and put it in the sink real gentle-like. One down; one more to go.
I got Daddy Jimmy’s bowl and, in slow motion, made my way to the kitchen. It was so incremental that someone could have easily mistaken my progression as cut scenes from a clay animation. Then, it slipped and…CRASH. So much for Kumbaya.
Tiny glass was all around. It blanketed the kitchen floor like morning dew on a freshly mowed lawn. Haphazardly, I took one step, and my foot became a casualty of my mission. Mom and Daddy Jimmy ran out of the room to find my frightened face covered in tears and my foot leaking life.
Mom scooped me up and off into the bathroom. She hung my foot over the tub and turned on the water. It stung. One miniscule, dislodged shard, a bloody washcloth, and a psychedelic band aid later and my boo-boo was starting to feel a bit better.
Daddy Jimmy swept up the glass and carted it to the trash like a culprit caught red handed. And he walked back-and-forth across the kitchen floor to prove to me that I could stride with confidence. And I started to feel confident that things would get better after all.
Yeah…not so much.