Crisis Averted
I walk into the kitchen after dropping the girls off at school. Melina stands near the kitchen counter, her eyes brimming with tears as she fights to keep it all together.
"What's the matter?" I ask her. I have to wonder what the heck could have gone wrong in the six minutes I've been gone. Right before I left, she'd been happily reading her book.
"I don't like this part of my shirt." She reaches inside her T-shirt and pulls on the back of the appliqué. "It's scratching me."
"Okay, well, you can leave it like that or you can go change your shirt." I feel like spitting my words. The cat had me up early. I'm too tired to deal with a this issue today.
"But I like this shirt." She blinks away a few tears.
"I know, but I can't do anything about it now. Either wear it or don't. You need to get to school."
I don't roll my eyes, even though I'm tempted, because I don't want Melina to think I don't care about her and her feelings. But sweet bacon crackers! I thought we'd grown out of this stage a long time ago, about the time when the seams of every single pair of socks we owned stopped bothering her.
Melina skips off, runs up the stairs, and grabs a new shirt. She and I both know she's not done.
"I really like this shirt."
In Melinaese, that's "What are you going to do about this and how fast can you do it?"
I stroll over to my trusty computer, look up what I can find on Amazon about fixing this damn T-shirt, and then tell her goodbye as she walks out the door with Tim. Her eyes still glisten with tears, but she'll hold up for most of the day.
But I know my child and her aptitude for tunnel-vision. And when Melina comes back to me at 2:40 p.m., the first thing she will say is, "How can we fix my shirt?"
I'm two steps ahead of her now, though. For I have to go to the store to buy a smoke alarm (because we certainly want to avert that sort of crisis), and I know that in and among the craft items there, I will find something that can help. And sure enough, I do.
Once I'm home, I grab the shirt, a pair of scissors, my iron, and the HeatnBond that I bought.
Five minutes later, and voila! We have a fixed shirt, one that hopefully will not scratch the tender skin of my youngest child.
Just another day of averting a crisis around these parts. There's nothing a mother can't do, I tell you. Nothing.
"What's the matter?" I ask her. I have to wonder what the heck could have gone wrong in the six minutes I've been gone. Right before I left, she'd been happily reading her book.
"I don't like this part of my shirt." She reaches inside her T-shirt and pulls on the back of the appliqué. "It's scratching me."
"Okay, well, you can leave it like that or you can go change your shirt." I feel like spitting my words. The cat had me up early. I'm too tired to deal with a this issue today.
"But I like this shirt." She blinks away a few tears.
"I know, but I can't do anything about it now. Either wear it or don't. You need to get to school."
I don't roll my eyes, even though I'm tempted, because I don't want Melina to think I don't care about her and her feelings. But sweet bacon crackers! I thought we'd grown out of this stage a long time ago, about the time when the seams of every single pair of socks we owned stopped bothering her.
Melina skips off, runs up the stairs, and grabs a new shirt. She and I both know she's not done.
"I really like this shirt."
In Melinaese, that's "What are you going to do about this and how fast can you do it?"
I stroll over to my trusty computer, look up what I can find on Amazon about fixing this damn T-shirt, and then tell her goodbye as she walks out the door with Tim. Her eyes still glisten with tears, but she'll hold up for most of the day.
But I know my child and her aptitude for tunnel-vision. And when Melina comes back to me at 2:40 p.m., the first thing she will say is, "How can we fix my shirt?"
I'm two steps ahead of her now, though. For I have to go to the store to buy a smoke alarm (because we certainly want to avert that sort of crisis), and I know that in and among the craft items there, I will find something that can help. And sure enough, I do.
Once I'm home, I grab the shirt, a pair of scissors, my iron, and the HeatnBond that I bought.
Just another day of averting a crisis around these parts. There's nothing a mother can't do, I tell you. Nothing.
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