Sometimes at the end of the day, when a moment is taken to reflect on the events that occurred, it can seem like an exaggerated recollection, a stretching of the memory if you will, a surreal account that can’t possibly be true. I recognize that my particular DNA makeup suggests I am prone to dramatics and am likely to elaborate more than necessary, possibly aggrandize a particular interaction, or even overstate a simple situation.
The events of Saturday would not fall under any of those descriptions.
My day began with a quiet house. It was early in the morning, John was rounding at the hospital, and the children were asleep in their beds. I started the coffee maker, grabbed my Bible study workbook, looking forward to being joyfully alone on my porch.
I heard a funny noise, walked quickly to the kitchen and discovered that the coffeemaker had vomited on itself.
Coffee grounds and brown water had spewed everywhere - on the floor, on the counter, on the cabinets.
I knew the day had finally come to retire the coffee maker that had been my first gift to open at an Around the Clock bridal shower held over fourteen years ago. The second gift was a bread machine, which interestingly, vomited early on in our marriage, relieving me of the domestic peer pressure of producing fresh, baked bread imposed upon me by my spatula-wielding high school home economics teacher who made Martha Stewart seem downright polite.
I immediately broke the news to Mr. Coffee that he would be moving to the appliance assisted living home. You know where I’m talking about – way up high in your cabinets, behind the hot dog bun warmer and the Mickey Mouse waffle maker, the place all retired appliances go to play endless games of bingo and yahtzee, and reminisce the glory days when housewives wore aprons and knew how to correctly bake cinnamon bread for the sick, the elderly, and the homebound.
By the time I finished cleaning the enormous mess made by the wayward coffee machine, the children were awake, and I realized that we were going to have to hustle to get to our first of two baseball games scheduled for that morning.
Chase’s baseball game was a nail biter. His team was down by one run in the bottom of the seventh inning, with one out on the scoreboard. It was my son’s turn to bat and my heart hurt as he walked slowly to the batter’s box knowing that he was potentially the tying run. All he needed was a hit. Oh Lord, just give him one hit I prayed.
He got his hit. And he did end up being the tying run.
Just not in the way he would have liked.
For the record, and for those of you envisioning the antics that border on hysteria expected by yours truly, it is my pleasure to report that I remained reasonably calm while MY BABY FELL TO THE DIRT WRITHING IN PAIN after being hit in the back by a baseball. I think it may have had something to do with the fact that I was too busy trying to catch the eye of the mama of the delinquent pitcher who pelted my child , for the sole purpose of letting her know that I thought it perfectly appropriate for her to spank her child after the game.
Not really. I decided to spank him myself.
Oh, I am just kidding. I don’t condone violence of any sort. Our family just rolled his yard later that night.
Later that day, Mary Mac and I walked into our breakfast room and discovered this:
Yep. That’s a bird. Our interactions are never pleasant. In between each of the photos taken, the bird would swoop directly towards my face before finding safety in my window treatments.
I squealed, Mary Mac squealed, the bird squealed, as each time the flash of my camera captured the flight of our unwanted visitor.
Finally, and out of increasing frustration of the photo documentation occurring, Mary Mac said, “Mommy, don’t you think it would be better to shoo him out with a broom instead of your camera?”
Such a wise, capable, five year old. Any day now, she’ll be baking her own bread.