Dinner was already loaded into the crock-pot, the chickpeas, kale and curry simmering into a fragrant medley. I had then viciously attacked all the impossible-to-chop vegetables lurking on the porch; my hands were numb and sore but the sweet potatoes and squash were bubbling on the stove top. I dumped the chunky soup mixture into the blender and it whirred away like a dentist’s drill. Asher danced away, shrieking wildly.
I pressed the off button, tilted the blender and the creamy mixture oozed into the large clear Tupperware containers atop the counter. I carefully placed them in the fridge, surveying my disaster of a kitchen with utter satisfaction. I turned to do the filmy dishes before schlepping my two-year-old upstairs for a nap.
I was elbow-deep in suds for but a few seconds when I heard a crash. I whipped around, bubbles fluttering off my arms.
And there it was.
My angelic son – in about 2 seconds flat – had opened the fridge and yanked a full-to-the-brim container off the shelf. It had exploded open and thick orange liquid was now cascading over the refrigerator shelves, into the drawers, settling into every crevasse, streaming all the way down the laminate floor to where I was standing at the sink.
To top it off, Asher was coated from his blond curly head to his thick pudgy feet in soup. And he was screaming.
Faced with such a catastrophe, I did what any loving, caring mother would do.
I lost it.
I yelled. Loudly. Tears involuntarily started streaming down my cheeks as I relegated my wailing baby to a tea towel in the corner. As I was using my arm to sweep soup off the bottom shelf of the fridge, Ash’s cries began to escalate. I glared at him, “WAIT UNTIL MOMMY IS FINISHED CLEANING YOUR MESS!”
He reached his pudgy arms out, tears still falling profusely.
And I carried on scrubbing.
It was until after I had gone through the first of two jumbo rolls of paper towel, soup coating me from the knees down, that I actually turned to look into his watery green eyes. The ones that match mine.
I stopped scrubbing.
I sidled up to him. He leaned into me and patted my back, “Hi Mommy, hi Mommy, hi Mommy,” he blubbered. I gathered my soupy babe up and wrapped myself around him, sweet potato remnants coating all parts of me that were yet untouched.
And he crushed himself into me, desperate to know the real Mommy-not the crazy eyed monster- was still in there somewhere. I let him cry onto my chest, and he let me cry into his crusty hair.
I hauled him up the stairs and dropped him into a warm tub. I squeezed the bottle of body wash into the water and watched the suds build for the second time that morning. Ash looked expectantly at me and pointed to the spot beside him. I jumped in. Asher beamed at me.
I looked at him over the mountain of bubbles and humbly uttered, “Mommy is so sorry Asher. Mommy is so sorry for being loud. Will you forgive Mommy?”
He smiled at me with those green eyes.
And I wanted to cry.
Because it was that easy. All was forgiven. All was forgotten. On to the bubbles and the giggles and the belly flops.
But before all that, I want to thank you my love.
Thank you for seeing the best parts of me.
Thank you for granting forgiveness as eagerly as our Father does, your arms wide open.
Thank you for choosing to remember our beautiful moments.The bubble baths and blanket forts and tickle fights. The bowl of yogurt we share on the couch during our morning snuggle. Our adventures in the woods and wrestling matches and wild dance parties.
Thank you for forgetting the rest.