SOMEONE in this house, someone who shall go nameless (partly because I’m not completely sure who the someone is), put the peanut butter back in the fridge with the lid set neatly on top, but not screwed down.
Where is the logic in that, I ask you? Setting the lid ON TOP, but not finishing the task? Why not just leave the lid off? If you’re going to set it on top, why not screw the thing down? But no, this person set the lid on top so that it LOOKED closed, but it wasn’t. And then this person set the jar in the fridge, a time-bomb waiting for an unsuspecting victim with a penchant for peanut butter.
That victim, of course, would be me, in a hurry to make a sandwich for the 18 year old, who was about to leave for his third shift in 24 hours. Grabbing the peanut butter jar with my left hand and the bread with the right, I turned to put them on the counter, only to discover that all I held in my left hand was a lid.
The plastic peanut butter jar cascaded slowly out of the fridge behind me, turning end over end, spewing its contents as it fell. Hitting the ground hard, it bounced high and continued its spectacular journey, coming to rest only after it had spun a few more times, hit the ground and rolled across the kitchen floor.
The 18 year old witnessed the disaster in all its glory from a prime seat in the sitting room next to the kitchen. It rendered him speechless. Or perhaps that was just lack of sleep.
I stood, frozen for a second, and surveyed the damage. Peanut butter on the floor. Peanut butter on each shelf, as well as the door of the fridge. Peanut butter on my shirt, my pants, my shoes, my feet. Peanut butter dripping down my calf. Peanut butter on the stove behind me, on the wall, and on the cabinet at the other end of the kitchen.
The 18 year old, finally finding his voice, pointed out that there was even peanut butter on the armchair next to him in the sitting room.
So I did what any self-respecting homemaker would do. I took a deep breath, picked up the jar of peanut butter…. and called the dogs. They were ecstatic.
I let them handle the floor, the walls, and eventually, my feet. I worked on the fridge. The kitchen’s pretty clean now, the dogs are content, and the sandwich has been happily carried to work by the 18 year old for a midnight snack. It was a teamwork kind of moment.
As a homeschooler, I feel it is my duty to turn each life experience into a lesson, so I’m considering assigning a back-to-school essay in September for the three kids still under my tutelage. Something along the lines of “Domestic Responsibility: Why It Is Important To Finish Each Task To Which I Set My Hand.” That way I will most likely address the issue with the culprit, and for the two innocent children, whichever they turn out to be, it will be a good opportunity to learn from another’s mistake. Sounds like a win-win situation to me.
Unless the culprit turns out to be my husband…