You’ve got to be Kidding!
It was the perfect day. Less than a dozen cotton balls drifting on the breeze in a clear blue bath above. Wisps of white teased out from the core and rendered invisible in the brilliant sunshine. Sparrows flitting through the orchard chasing flies or gnats. Butterflies and bees snuggling up to the rainbow colored gardens scattered around the back forty.
The lemonade was just tangy enough to force a pucker. The nachos just stringy enough to keep your attention between each crunch.
You know what happened next, don’t you?
I ignored my teenage son. It was a Saturday late morning and he was just emerging from the depths of his man cave to scrounge for something I’d left him. Only, I hadn’t left him anything. I was half-way through the best novel I’ve every absorbed and this boy needed to get ready for independence.
I still ignored his increased cry of desperation. This was my first taste of untainted sunshine and an uncluttered schedule. Silence might encourage him to assume I was out shopping for some major delicacy. Chapter twenty-seven was a page turner.
The call was a little muffled as my son Trevor traipsed off into another part of the house on his safari. I hardly heard anything for the next chapter.
“Help! O my goodness. Help!”
Even a mother can’t ignore that call. I dropped my novel on the lawn chair and raced barefoot toward the kitchen entrance. The whirring sound of the blender did not sound promising.
“O my goodness. Mom! Where were you? Look at this.”
A fruit smoothie had erupted out of the lidless blender all over the walls, counters, floor and ceiling. The blender was still whirring as my son stood, mouth wide, facepalmed. The smoke coming out of the toaster oven seemed to have totally escaped his senses. The smoke alarm sure didn’t escape mine.
Dexter, our dacshund, skittered into the melee, yelped, and bolted outside and down the stairs. During his exit his backend upset the hockey stick leaning against the wall. The hockey stick slid slow motion along the wall until it contacted the counter, bounced perfectly, and tipped the vase of roses from my anniversary onto the tile. My prize vase shattered into more pieces than a jumbo jig saw.
“O my goodness.” Trevor looked like he’d crazy glued those hands to his face and blown a gasket through his eye balls while he was at it.
I bit my tongue, yanked the blender and toaster oven cords out of the wall socket, and tried to sizzle my teenager with a laser stare he’d never forget.
“But mom, I called you.”
We had a little mother-son time talking about how clean a kitchen could get - and practicing the art of getting it that way.
As Trevor stood precariously on a ladder stretching himself to wipe down the ceiling, Dexter reintroduced himself into the scene. My son was at the limits of his stretch when the dog barked. The distraction was just enough to cause Trevor to lose his balance and descend onto the tile floor where I was still cleaning up shards of scattered vase.
The elbow in my back and the sickening thud beside me let me know something else was amiss. Trevor’s groans were intense. Completely forgetting my first-aid training I collapsed and tried to regain my ability to breathe. Trevor continued groaning.
I finally got over my self-focus, gasped in enough oxygen, and rolled over to survey the heap next to me. When I got to my knees, I rolled him over and saw the small pools of red near his head.
Instead of calling the ambulance, I dragged the 6 foot lumux into my pick-up. When we stumbled into the emergency ward the nurse did her own impression of a facepalm.
When I finally got out of that wheelchair and onto a stretcher I was feeling like a hero.Somewhere between the pokes and prods and needles and x-rays my cell phone vibrated. I was too slow, so listened to the message.
“Hi love. How’s the novel? Sure feels good to get some downtime doesn’t it? Just wanted you to know that I birdied three holes today. I’m heading for the pool for a few laps. Enjoy the book. If you see Trevor, give him a hug from me. Love you. Oh, I’m bringing the boys by at 2. See you then.”
Facepalm is not the word.
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