If there's one thing I hate the most about motherhood, it's cleaning up spilled milk. What is it about that substance that gets it everywhere, splattering into a million drops, getting into places and surfaces not just in direct line of the point of impact, but well onto a tangent? It's sticky, it coats everything and gets really ugly if not every last drop is found. Even a small amount of milk in a glass makes a huge mess. It is such a pain.
My children know this. I'm patient with milk spills that are genuine accidents, but when someone's messing around or not following a rule, usually designed to prevent milk spills, and then a cup gets knocked over, then I get mad.
Today I left work a little early, I wasn't feeling well all day. When I got home with all three, I gave Katrina some milk and reminded her to sit down at the table. I dared sneak upstairs to change my clothes -- could I possibly get 5 uninterrupted minutes for this luxury?
And I did get that, thanks to Julian. When I came back downstairs, he told me that Katrina had indeed spilled her milk. But the dining area was spotless, except for a large wet area that looked like it had been recently wiped clean. Julian had taken it upon himself to fix the situation: he found a cloth, pulled a footstool up to the sink to wet it, then wiped up the whole spill, table and floor, and even got most of the drops that get onto every chair leg within 20 feet. He'd put the cup in the sink and even rinsed out the cloth and put it back into the sink. He did a really good job on a challenging and very annoying task. I couldn't believe it! Dare I say....I'm not sure Dave could have pulled this off! Dads are notoriously incapable of finding things in a crisis.
But my industrious little boy decided to spare me one of thousands of spill cleanups I will face in my career as a mother. And I got my 5 minutes of peace, thanks to him. That made up for the hours of un-peace he provided later.