I'd like to share some choice words with them.
Do you know what spilt milk looks like? Do you know what it smells like? Anyone who doesn't ever cry over spilt milk has incredible self control... or a maid. On most days, I have neither (well, I never have a maid but there are lovely moments when I have self control).
Once I paid thirty dollars to have my car cleaned by the energetic gentlemen at Auto Bell, then went home and cleaned it myself... all because it smelled like a mouse had died in it, and not recently. It turns out my one year old had spilled his milk on my yoga mat. First I cursed the makers of his "spill proof" sippy cup. Then I cursed the one who coined the whole crying over spilt milk adage.
I only discovered that the atrocious smell of rodent death lay in my yoga mat as I was participating in my class at the Y. I kept smelling my hair, my armpits, my clothing ... all the while hoping my neighbor was not watching me.
At some point a cynical person amended aforementioned phrase to say, "Don't cry over spilt champagne." I don't know if they were trying to be ironic or funny, but I find the new phrase much more appropriate. First of all, champagne does not smell of putrid rot upon drying. Secondly, I cannot feed my children with champagne nor can I produce it from my person. These two qualities of milk cause it to increase in value enormously. Champagne is made with grapes and is not the best use of them, in my opinion. If it is spilled my husband will be spared a most infernal headache.
Advertisements and books I read and shows I watch keep encouraging me to appreciate the simple things in life, and that the best things in life are free. I would like to add that the opposite is true: the simple harms in life, the simple mistakes, can also be the most egregious.
We are tempted to gloss over our little slip-ups, and I am to blame as well. If I want to shed a tear over my spilt milk, I wonder how my six year old feels when I turn his tv show off five minutes too soon because we have to leave now. If milk can cause my blood to boil, perhaps it makes sense that my three year old will cry when presented with purple lettuce that he must eat in order to receive dessert.
Sometimes I overlook an apology for little things; I forget to explain to Jonathan's teacher why I was late for AR testing. I let my late arrival to a playdate be ignored and hope that it will just be forgiven.
Then I have a day where the little things in my own life pile up, like today. At one point I was in the bathroom on the telephone with my husband (the only place I can finish a conversation other than the car) and heard glass being thrown around the kitchen. You think I'm kidding, but last night Jonathan wanted a last minute glass of milk, so I filled a bourbon glass with milk and let him drain it. There the glass sat, still with that one last drop of milk, overnight, until the two younger children discovered it this morning and decided to play volleyball with it while I attended to a phone call in my "office".
My day progressed, it had its ups and downs, but what I really needed was something simple to bring me back to equilibrium. I didn't need damn champagne, I needed a tall glass of milk.
I met two of my dearest friends at the Science Center for a playdate and as I soaked up the giggles and the fish, the scampering feet and the delighted squeals and the interesting facts about tornadoes that William and his buddy can't get enough of, I felt some peace.
When you start to feel like you're making too big a deal of the small atrocities in life, know you're not alone. We all make too big a deal of them, because they are like mosquitoes: small, obnoxious, and occasionally carrions of deadly disease. When the milk spills, the shit hits the fan, and it's evidence of Murphy's Law, which is quite discouraging indeed.
Fortunately, what I've learned is that I can turn Murphy's Law on it's cheeky, arrogant head. If anything that can go wrong will, sometimes all I need is for something to go right. Occasionally a tall glass of milk going down cold and accompanied by a chocolate chip cookie is like a holiday at the beach.
So, cheers. Cheers and thanks to my friends for our playdates, to my husband for overlooking the takeout dinner, to my mom for cleaning my kitchen. I will cheers with a tall glass of milk (or a cheap glass of wine) and poo poo that champagne.
