The Hammer

in Giggles on April 6, 2023

Yesterday I drove to the next town over so my budding cosmetologist of a daughter could do my hair. I needed a little freshening up before Easter.

I decided to take my eighteen-month-old Bernedoodle puppy, Mrs. Bennett (see Pride and Prejudice for the reference) along for the ride. All three of my “baby adult” children live together, and I figured Mrs. B would enjoy seeing the kids and their respective dogs. My plan was to drop off my dog at their house before my hair appointment.

I arrived at the kids’ house about an hour and a half ahead of my appointment slot. I brought with me plenty of writing prompts and wedding spreadsheets containing addresses and guest lists to keep me more than occupied for the ninety minutes I would be otherwise idle.

Spoiler Alert: My backpack never left my vehicle.

I have written several other posts about my absolute failure as a mother and suitable mentor in respect to passing along certain housekeeping skills to my offspring. Obviously my constant rattling and public shame over their collective dismal cleaning skills has not produced any noticeable positive results, as evident by the scene that greeted me at 1:15 yesterday afternoon.

To say that I was stunned into silence is the understatement of the day.

I thought I had mentally prepared myself for the certain dumpster fire in which I would enter. I was wrong.

As I made my way through the kitchen and into the living room, I desperately tried to look past the sink full of dirty dishes and randomly strewn lone socks that littered the floor. I was not there to clean—I was there to drop off a dog, get my hair done, and take the kids to dinner.

I tried. I really and truly tried to stick to my plan. However, as I made my way to the dining room table, I quickly observed that my backpack would be relatively useless, as there was no available clean space to set it.

So, I adjusted my original idea, and thought I’d just clear a spot big enough for my computer. Again, I was met with heavy resistance. Of course on the table, there was the unmistakeable presence of Whataburger cups and takeout bags. There was an assortment of makeup and a mirror, and plenty of random cosmetology items. All of that was not super surprising, nor wholly unexpected. The totally unforeseen addition on the table was a shard of glass laying benignly on one corner.

I carefully picked it up, threw it away, and returned to the table to continue my quest. I soon discovered that my singular shard was not an only child. It had siblings.

Lots and lots and lots of siblings—some big, some small, and some only known by their familiar rattle inside the canister of a vacuum. To make the situation even more bizarre, nestled in the midst of all the glass was a large pile of coins, and laying innocently beside both the glass and the coins, was a hammer.

I had a new quest.

I spent the better part of twenty minutes carefully weeding through the ocean of glass to rescue and deposit the coins into a plastic container. I then began the tedious task of transferring glass into the trash can. It was about that time that my phone rang: It was my oldest.

My response to his usually “safe” question of “What are you up to?” was met with a very nervous laugh, followed by, “Yeah…about that…”

For forty-five minutes, I had been cleaning up a crime scene, where the victim had been a poor and helpless piggy bank. And, the weapon of choice was indeed: a hammer.

I was utterly gobsmacked.

Of all of the infant adults that traipse through that house, I knew in my heart of hearts that each one of them had more sense than to deliberately bludgeon a glass jar in the kitchen with a hammer. It is safe to say, I have never been more wrong.

After several deep and steadying breaths, I congratulated my oldest spawn and told him this little stunt had broken the proverbial camel’s back, and had subsequently bought he and his brother and sister a WHOLE WEEKEND WITH ME, well me and Mr. Clean’s consolidated army of products.

To be fair, he was not shocked by his prize and actually handled it quite well; even telling me, “We probably could use the help.”

In ten days time, a hammer of a different sort will fall in that kitchen. The hammer called MOM. I will spend next Friday through Sunday, going from the tippity-top of the upstairs, to the baseboards of the garage directing, showing and supervising while my children make ready that house as though the Queen’s arrival was imminent.

I did manage to get the table cleaned off, see that the dogs were highly entertained by each other, and make it to my hair appointment (almost) on time. I did not, however, get anything else done; namely wedding addresses, etc.

Pray for my children. The Mom is coming, and once she arrives, no one is safe.

Have a happy and blessed Easter.

One thought on “The Hammer”

Comments are closed.