My daughter Melissa (now 17) and I were reminiscing about this post, which first appeared in February, 2012. I am pleased to share it again!
Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk on Monday
Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk on Monday
Take a typical carton of orange juice and leave it alone for at least 24 hours and you know what happens? Thanks to the laws of gravity, the pulp sinks down and settles at the bottom. That’s why every time my 14-year old daughter Melissa picks up a container of orange juice, she shakes it before pouring.
A creature of habit, Melissa has taken to shaking containers before opening no matter what liquid may lurk inside… milk, iced tea, fruit juice, it doesn’t matter.
So why I am sharing this seemingly mundane information about my daughter? Well, Melissa’s “shaking” habit sets the stage for our story, which begins innocently enough on a Monday morning.
The members of my household certainly don't embrace Monday mornings with glee. However, we do feel a bit more energized after a relaxing weekend, and we’re ready to tackle the challenges the week has to bring. (This positive attitude is usually shattered by Tuesday, mind you.)
On Sunday night, lunches are made, clothes are ironed, and bedtime comes a bit earlier. In the morning following my alarm clock's prodding, I throw off the warm covers, walk down the hall, enter Melissa's bedroom, and convince her to get out of bed. Some mornings are quite productive, while others find her still fussing with her hair as the school bus makes its steady approach to our house.
On a recent Monday morning, my daughter, determined to be on time, had awakened without protest, spent a limited amount of effort on her hair, and went down stairs for breakfast a staggering 20 minutes before her scheduled departure. Looking forward to eating a leisurely meal, she happily poured a bowl of cereal.
My morning also went according to plan. I had showered and dressed, and now stood in the bathroom, blow dryer in hand, trying to coax a curl out of my poker straight hair.
Suddenly, a spine chilling scream rent the air, followed by the sounds of teenage feet pounding up the stairs!
Melissa burst into the bathroom, covered from head to toe in a silky white substance.
 |
| This photo is not Melissa! Had I taken a picture of her at the time, I'm quite sure my life would have come to an abrupt end! |
“SOMEBODY FORGOT TO TIGHTEN THE LID ON THE MILK!”
As I stared at my milk-covered Melissa, I opted not to remind her that she is the only person in the house who drinks the organic milk. No need to hire a private detective to determine who had committed the crime of forgetting to tighten the lid.
Instead, I surveyed the situation, thinking about the best way to remove every drop of milk in the five minutes that remained before the bus arrived, and trying, trying oh so hard with every ounce of my being, not to laugh!
Instead, I surveyed the situation, thinking about the best way to remove every drop of milk in the five minutes that remained before the bus arrived, and trying, trying oh so hard with every ounce of my being, not to laugh!
I knew that if my mouth twisted upwards to indicate even the slightest smile, I might lose all of my limbs.
Ok, I needed to focus. Drawing on my powers of deduction, I concluded that the incident had a horrible, tragic effect on:
1. Her hair
2. Her fake Ugg boots (I will not spend $150 on boots when the fakes work just as well)
3. Did I mention her hair?
3. Did I mention her hair?
Priorities!
We tackled the hair first. I grabbed the blow dryer while she maneuvered the brush, and together we rid each strand of milk. Panicked, she yelled and whined and fretted and cursed. By this point, I promised to drive her to school since the bus had come and gone.
Next challenge - the boots.
Despite my best efforts, my rigorous scrubbing was met with no success.
Melissa had to choose between covering her feet with milk-stained boots or (egads!) sneakers. Either choice resulted in a middle-school fashion paux pas. (She chose the sneakers)
We tackled the hair first. I grabbed the blow dryer while she maneuvered the brush, and together we rid each strand of milk. Panicked, she yelled and whined and fretted and cursed. By this point, I promised to drive her to school since the bus had come and gone.
Next challenge - the boots.
Despite my best efforts, my rigorous scrubbing was met with no success.
Melissa had to choose between covering her feet with milk-stained boots or (egads!) sneakers. Either choice resulted in a middle-school fashion paux pas. (She chose the sneakers)
By the time we climbed into the car, the evidence of the breakfast fiasco had all been wiped clean, and the foul mood that now gripped my offspring remained the only remnant of our eventful morning.
Later that day, as we busied ourselves with the choreography of dinner, I observed my now calm, happy child.
“Melissa,” I said quite timidly as I set the forks and knives on the table, “you have to admit, the incident this morning really was funny.”
“I actually got a lot of compliments on my hair today,” she said, laughing at the irony.
The remainder of the week passed by without incident, with the exception of the extra effort made on both our parts to get out of bed and ready on time, lest another shaken container ruin another pair of fake Ugg boots.
The story will become one for the record books, not so much because of the humor, although that reason does rank quite high. It will forever stay in my memory because when a carton of milk decided to let loose on my child, she ran up the stairs to that one person in the world who would have the answers.
She ran to the one person who would stay calm
She ran to the one person who would clean her up.
She ran to the one person who would make things right.
She ran up the stairs…. to me.
If you like my stories please tell me in the comments section below!
She ran to the one person who would stay calm
She ran to the one person who would clean her up.
She ran to the one person who would make things right.
She ran up the stairs…. to me.
If you like my stories please tell me in the comments section below!
This is too funny! But for a girl that age---it can feel like the entire day has been ruined. Oh, how I miss the days when spilt milk was my only problem, ha-ha!
ReplyDeleteHi Marcia, I know, to her it was the biggest tragedy of her life! But glad to say she survived to tell the tale!
DeleteYou really got me with the ending!!! I did not expect to need tissues for this one! xoxo
ReplyDeleteAwww, thanks Kathy!!
Delete