Say You’re Sorry.

 

Did you know? When you are surrounded by other humans, there is often trouble.

It’s a rotten world.

Ok, that might be a bit of an overstep. I mean, we have wonderfulness, here in this world. We’ve got purple Spring flowers. We’ve got funny cat videos. We’ve got chocolate. We’ve got people who are kind and loving and generally peaceful.

But also? There’s rottenness. I’m sorry, but we all act rotten every once in a while. You know you do. Don’t argue.

The other day my husband came home late from work. Dinner had been served. The dishes cleaned. We had “moved on with our lives,” and he was not too happy about this. Also, I think he was hungry, so you know. That doesn’t make for a good behavior sometimes.

Anyhow, he came into the living room where I was participating in my nightly ritual of folding ten million clothing items, and asked, “Is there… food?” He tilted his head towards the kitchen. “In there?”

I smiled and said, “We already ate, but I’m sure there’s something.” And he responded with this gem:

“WHAT. LIKE AIR? ” And stomped off.

The husband. A master at the one-liner. I snapped a pair of underpants and felt my insides simmer.

Now, granted, usually I have leftovers. But tonight’s meal had BEEN leftovers and we had hoovered them. All that was left was a sad carrot stick and some… Air. So, perhaps I should have, as the Dutiful Wife, made him something. Yes. Totally,  I should have done that because that would have been the nice thing to do. I totally didn’t. I forgot because my brain gets wispy after 7 pm.

But also? The AIR comment was a bit uncalled for. Don’t you think? I mean… how rude.

Sorry-ness usually happens because two people are involved. Usually. It doesn’t occur all alone. I mean, rarely does a rude tree in the forest and everyone else around him heard it, because RUDE.

Ok, I don’t really know if that analogy works, but bear with me.

My POINT (thank goodness, I know) is that … Brian felt tired out. He came home late which means, work, you know. I think he goes into that building sometimes like it’s one of those Roman coloseums. Except no real lions or spears or death. That’s a plus.

But, I could have at least left him some applesauce. Everyone deserves applesauce after a hard day at the coloseum.

So, later the husband approached. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m grumpy.”

“Me too,” I responded, vaguely. This kind of answer is totally superior because it doesn’t really elucidate if I am SORRY or I am GRUMPY, therefore I have TOTALLY STILL HELD ONTO NOT HAVING TO APOLOGIZE.

And so therefore…

I WIN THIS ROUND. I TOTALLY WIN. I WIN AT BEING MARRIED!!!!

Ok, now that THAT’s out of the way, it’s possible I also muttered,
“I’m sorry too. I love you. Here’s some applesauce. And I put some cinnamon on it.”

AND WE ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER.

Until the next opportunity for saying “sorry” occured. Which was probably within a twenty minute time span. That’s how we roll.

Also, I must share with you this little preshusness:

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I found this in Blonde’s backpack. It seems his buddy had the HORRIBLE AUDACITY to correct my eight year old on cultural relevance. Therefore… I think there must have been an argument.

An eight year old version of an argument goes like this:

Blonde’s friend: Sate Patrc Say. YOU DON’T KNOW.

Blonde: Yes, I do.

See:

YOU. DON’T. KNOW.

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I know. It’s totally got you on the edge of your seat, doesn’t it? This could be a script for The Good Wife, I tell you.

So… Blonde’s friend wrote him a little apology note. Which is adorable.

We can learn a lot from the eight year olds. They get mad, about holidays mainly, I think, and then they are over it.

I’ve watched my six year old go through all five stages of grief about some horrible thing his brother did to him in thirty seconds. Seriously, you could feel the wind off of those stages. He whipped through them. It was awe inspiring.

But perhaps… this just sums it up best.

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The End.

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Sunday. Mushy post. Be Warned.

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These two? The two (slightly blurry because Momsie cannot hold a camera still) on the left here?  They teach me more in a day than I ever thought possible.  They are a daily crash course cram session in love and life, my friends.

Here’s a little example:

We are all getting ready for church.  When anything can go wrong in our house, or be upsetting, or just really frazzling or achingly ANNOYING, this is that time.

Time for church?  Oh, then the coffee maker needs to spill.  And da maper syrup (as Red calls it)?  That too will spill. (It is SO not a good idea for anyone to ever serve anything that merits a dose of maple syrup on Sunday morning.  Stick with packaged, terrifically unhealthy corn syrup granola bombs, if you must.  NO SYRUP.  I have yet to learn this lesson, but today might be the day).  Discovery that the cat has suddenly forgotten where her cat box is?  7:50 am on Sunday, of course.  Zippers breaking?  Yep, that time.  Momsie’s hormones spiraling out of control paired with despair and gloom?  Sunday Morning Coming Down.

You get the picture.

Anyhow, we’re all getting ready for our time of worship with our Lord and Savior, with gritted teeth and much grumbling (the getting ready, not the worship, and most of the grumbling is from me).  Momsie is at her parenting APEX, demonstrated by saying things like,

“DUDES REALLY.  FOR THE LOVE.  WE HAVE GOT TO GO IT’S WAY PAST TIME WE ARE SO LATE I DON’T EVEN WANT TO KNOW HOW LATE WOULD YOU PLEASE HUSTLE IT’S OK WE DON’T HAVE TIME TO WASH HANDS AND I MEAN NOW GET TO THE CAR OR SO HELP ME I WILL LEAVE YOU BOTH HERE WITH THE CAT!”

Toddlers don’t react well to threats.  Or rushing.  Or run on sentences.  I KNOW. But somehow I seem to forget.  Every. Sunday. Morning.

Whilst herding my sweet unherdables to the car, I forget, in the rush, a Very Important Bag that I was supposed to bring for the hubs (who is already at church due to his supposed “usher duty” which I find suspect.  He does wear the badge, and I have seen proof of it when he has to collect the offering, but honestly, I think he just does it so he can avoid our house at 7:50 on Sunday mornings).  And away we go, Momsie sighing with relief that we might just make it in before the first hymn, and the boys all combed and (hopefully) underweared…  and then I realize we gotta go back for The Bag.

“Mommah? What? Why you growl?”

“Why we turning round?”

“Mommah!  Ders the church!  DER it is!  DER!”

Momsie, through gritted teeth: “We have to go back.  I promised Daddy I would bring him his Sunday School bag.  I gotta go get it. It’s (grittttt) gonna be  O.K.”

“Huh.  We late?”

GRITTINGLY:  “Yep.”

“A pwomise?  You made a pwomise to Daddy?”

“Uh huh.”  Once more, with GRRRRIT:  “A promise.”

“So, it’s two pieces.”

“Huh?” Now Momsie’s confused.

I pull up to the house, but Blonde is still talking.  Jesus* asked me to stay in the car.  I did.

“A promise.  It’s two pieces.  Like a puzzle.”

I glanced in the rear view mirror.  Blonde found my eyes and locked on.

“Der’s da first piece:  You made a promise.” He holds up one hand.

“And den, da second piece.  You have to make it go.”  The other hand clasps his first.

“Dey go together.  Da promise, and den da doing it.”

Red:  “Like saying ‘Sorry’!”  We turn to him.

“You say sorry, but then you have to help!”  He clasped his hands.  “Dey fit!  Like together!”

I chewed on that all the way up the steps, to the bag, back to the car, and back to church.  We were late.

And I was exactly on time.

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*When I say Jesus asked me to stay in the car, it was not a big, loving voice that I heard, saying, “Sweet Dana, stay for a minute, please.”  Nope.  Just more like a soft weight on my chest that slowed me down and made me sit back a bit. He didn’t talk, outright.

But wouldn’t it had been cool if He HAD!  🙂

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And, now, I leave you with this. Let us pray your Sunday mornings don’t look like the following: