Good mom

I shrieked when it happened. In an instant, thousands of pencil-eraser sized drops of white shoe polish were all over my kitchen. The tile floor, island countertop, dog dish, dishwasher, chairs - even the bruised bananas were all assaulted by the big-bang explosion. I stood, with the oozing polish applicator still in my hand, overwhelmed by the mess.

Then I began to panic. White polish, by design, stains. I hurriedly grabbed the tea towels out of the drawer, attempting to corral the pool of ink, but all I seemed to do was make a bigger mess.

I relented and went upstairs for reinforcements. My poor husband lay in our bed, blankets pulled tight over his fatigued body. He had called in sick to work early this morning. Wearily he opened his eyes as I approached the bedside. I must have been quite a site, as his eyes betrayed his sickness and cast a playful look at me. "What happened to you?" For the first time, I looked down at my shirt. The words good mom were splattered with ink, as if whited out by my own foolishness. I looked at my partner and said "I need you." Without hesitation, he rolled out of bed and joined me downstairs.

By now, my ever-helpful four-year old was examining the mess. "Oh....what did my sister do?!!" I could swear the tone in his voice was laced with a bit of awe. "No, little man, this was mommy's accident," I sheepishly said to him as we pulled out cloths and wipes. Soon little sister came clamoring down the stairs with her blankie and baby. While we all laboured on hands and knees, my daughter found a comfy spot on daddy's back to supervise our efforts. Square tile by square tile, we worked together. My mood became fouler by the scrub. What a waste of time. I'm going to give that polish company a call they'll never forget. I can't believe I did this...

Thankfully, my husband and son seemed to be immune to the effects of my brooding. My poor tired husband was on bended knee with our son, chatting about how many squares there were on the floor, where they should scrub next, who needs a clean cloth. For my boy, this was a family adventure. Time with mommy and daddy to do something together. Eventually, the mess was washed away - and life went on.

The kids went upstairs to play, husband went to rest and I retreated to the computer to type. I've yet to clean myself up. My arms are covered in tiny white-out specks, and I'm still wearing my t-shirt. But now it doesn't seem to be so ruined : maybe the best way to be a good mom is to acknowledge the mess and see the beauty behind it. Like my little man said when we finished "at least we now have clean floors." Indeed.