“SORREE MUMMEE SORREE MUMMEE SORREE MUMMEE……..!”
Also known as my son’s Get Out Of Jail Free card.
There is a humongous stain in a prominent spot on a dark wood finished tabletop, courtesy of a spilt bottle of hand sanitizer that is corrosive to wood varnish.
Humongous = 6 inches X 6 inches at least.
When I explain to him (spilt sanitiser = giant white stain on our dark wood furniture), he throws his head back not unlike one of those Disney cartoon birds, and breaks forth the Sorree Litany at full volume.
This should be where I say to myself it’s just a tabletop on a relatively cheap piece of furniture (albeit right where we’ll keep seeing it). You have a beautiful, healthy son who is “Sorry” With The Quote Marks On. Except I’m ever-so-slightly obsessive compulsive. It was great when I still worked and went thru trades over and over in my head, checking for mistakes and ways to improve them. It’s great when I use that to think of ways to raise and communicate with Rockstar. It’s not so great on furniture stains.
The first time I discover the stain it takes my breath away. I know I’m getting air in, but for a few minutes it doesn’t quite feel like it. Rockstar sees my ashen face and halts mid-Sorree . He genuinely wants to know what’s wrong.
Except now he’s like a little squeaky gramophone going over and over again: whatisitwhat’swrongmummy.whatisitwhat’swrongwhat’swrongwhat’swrongwhat’swrongmummeeeeee. In my head, I tell myself it’s just a stain. You’ll see it every day, a few times a day, and it will remind you your son was able to work his fingers well enough to unscrew the top off that small bottle of fluid. And he was smart enough not to drink any of it. And you weren’t very smart, leaving it out where he could climb up and get it.
“Mummy’s sad because of the big stain on the furniture. Mummy couldn’t clean it off. It’s alright, I know it was an accident and you’re sorry, but Mummy would like you to take a good look at that stain and remember never to do that again,” I say calmly. It’s all I say. A little like a Stepford wife (or mum), but knowing my own tendency to overreact to mistakes (Ihatemistakes!Ihatemistakes!Ihatemistakes!), I keep my emotions tightly in check.
“Mummy. We go supermarket. I find new one. For Mummy. I buy you new one, Mummee.”
He’s taken my hand and is looking straight into my eyes in earnest. Then he hugs me tight. When I try to show him the stain, he averts his eyes over and over again, he won’t go near it. He hasn’t been messing with any little bottles that don’t belong to him either. They get a “Mummy, what this?”
Thank you, Giant Stain.
