don’t cry over spilt milk

Tiny songs with tiny hand movements were hummed all day yesterday begging the old man to come on out and play.  Though their singing sweet and honest, the sun only showed her face in little spurts with clouds of mosquitoes bubbling up behind her.  A trip to the science museum, though chaotic it may have been, was a perfect way to spend the morning.  Their moth and butterfly exhibit is more than intriguing for my almost four-year olds moth collecters eyes.  My two-year old was content holding his hand out to the railing of the second floor while turning circles around the building letting his fingers bump bump over each rung while I trailed behind him attempting not to lose anyone.

Of course, I decided to push the envelope and make a quick stop for milk at the co-op on the way home, I had the milk jugs, it was early yet, I could do this.

That is how I felt until the jugs came crashing down in the parking lot shattering all over my chaco wearing feet making pin prick holes all over them.  Many came to the rescue of the girl with the bleeding feet, but no one could help stop the wheel of disaster from turning.  The rest of the bloody story is not worth repeating for it was ugly.  Just plain old ugly.  I relayed the story to my knitting girls last night over a funnel of french fries and a beer admitting that somewhere along the line I became only a little embarrassed to walk around shedding tears in public.  Oh my.  How can I bear myself?

Oh these two give me a good dose of humility on a regular basis.  They have made me completely immune to any fear of asking for help.  I know not to sweat the little stuff, for I truly do not have the time.  It’s just not there.  They force me to think outside the box, to make a plan, and fast.  They have taught me to sweep up the glass, mop up the milk, and just plain old move on.

These two umbrella holding men of mine show me the sunshine no matter the weather.  


Life is medicine.