We’d barely made eye contact when my son guiltily confessed to, uh, nothing.
What he said: “I wasn’t doing anything.”
What he meant: “While you were taking a shower and I was completely unsupervised for ten minutes, I dumped all 64 oz of my sister’s new bubblebath on my bedroom carpet. Every drop.”
What I said before I knew this: “Why are your hands sticky?”
What I meant was: “Dear God, please don’t let this be honey or syrup or something I care a whole bunch about.”
What I saw next: A never-used, jumbo bottle of Tinkerbell bubble bath completely empty… AND… pools of the stuff completely soaked into the carpet of a little boy’s room looking like dark puddles of oil minus the rainbows.
What was really on the carpet: Uh…pools of bubble bath completely soaked into the carpet.
What I said next: “You have GOT to be kidding.”
What I meant: “Sit your behind down RIGHT HERE until I find your dad.”
Where he sat: On the top of the stairs in his underwear.
For how long: For the duration of the cleaning party.
Perspective: We weren’t staring at piles of puke. Or honey. Or syrup. No… heavens, no. Just mounds upon heaping mounds of foaming bubble bath.
What we did first: We scrubbed, blotted with beach towels, soaked the carpet with water, blotted some more, sucked up foam with the carpet cleaner until the motor threatened to pass out…. And then we did it 16 more times.
What we did after most of an hour: We shrugged…and then called over a little boy still in yesterday’s Thomas drawers, and we pointed…and he nodded…and with his quivery lip, he said he was sorry…by which time we did the only thing that made sense…we forgave him.
Then oddly or not oddly, I watched as life resumed its neurotic normalcy as if this hiccup had never happened.
And I was okay with that.