Momnesia

Sometimes, the less said, the better

I was rushing around, making dinner and cleaning up, prepping for the next day and getting ready to go out of town. I had just set down Emmie's dinner and then walked over to wipe down the kitchen counter. Emmie turned off the (effing) Wii, walked over to the couch, looked around and put her hands on her hips.

"Man, you godda clean up dis place, Mom!"

There are moments, as a mother, when the universe lays out two separate and distinct choices: to blow, or not to blow?

I chose to blow. I turned and hissed: "Excuuuuuse me?"

Emmie jumped. She knew immediately that she had said the wrong thing. She looked at me, eyes wide, mouth curled up at the corners in a combination of amusement and fear.

"Please examine this room. Do you see anything of mine that is out of place?" I asked, my voice deadly calm.

Emmie looked around. "Wull..."

That would be a big fat "no." I crossed my arms and looked at her. She glanced around nervously.

"Wull, I was just finking dat I should get dis stuff and put it in my bedroom," she said. I continued to give her the thousand-yard stare. I was waiting for something specific.

"Aaaaaand prolly I should lose my Wii privileges for da rest of da night." Nope. Not that. If she wanted to punish herself, I would let her. But all I needed was one sincere sentence.

She looked around desperately, then sprinted into a fierce hug.

"I'm sorry, mama. I love you."

That will do.