Why I Cry Over Spilled Milk

Yesterday, my son spilled milk in the car. It went flying everywhere.  He looked alarmed. Not as alarmed as I was when I realized my leather seats and Ann Taylor suit had just met Strawberry milk. Instead of modern rage and frustration, I immediately channeled my 1950’s inner housewife and tuned my brain into a Calgon commercial. Nothing short of Stepford Mom came out of my mouth…

With all the calm, sage, motherly wisdom I could muster I turned around , smiled and said “Oh, honey. Don’t cry over spilt milk. No good will ever come of it.”

My son looked at my like I was nuts and said “Why would I cry over spilled milk? That’s a dumb thing to cry over.” Then he just looked at me like I was the crazy one. Okay my little pint sized Buddha.  That certainly puts your Mom in her tiny little place in the universe. My son simply utters “Don’t we clean up now?”  Yes, no arguing with that logic.

Later that night, I had to clean out the car seat (most disgusting chore after years of not doing it), clean off the car mats, scrub down the seats and still had to take the car super  cleaned (ants found the car, apparently my cleaning job not so good) and my suit in to be cleaned. My son may not have wanted to cry over spilled milk, but after a long day working and then the cleaning bill, I did.

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