4/18/03
There are times when I should have my marriage license suspended.
A good example was last night after dinner. I was at the table trying to get Allie to take just three bites of "Cheesy Spaghetti Pie" (call it lasagna one time and Allie wouldn't get within a foot of the stuff). Debbie was at the sink taking care of some dishes. As I tried to choose the most toddler worthy portions of lasagna for Allie's three bites I heard a noise. It was a loud noise.
I looked over at the sink and saw the handle of a large metal spoon whirling around by itself. The only thing that kept me from believing we were having a Harry Potter moment was the unmistakable sound of garbage disposal blades trying to digest a large stainless steel kitchen implement.
Deb had taken a step back from the sink with both hands in the air and a look on her face that said, "Take cover! KILLER SPOON!" The fact that Deb took a step back rather than diving for the thrashing spoon made my ape-like brain spring into action. First I yelled, then I made a move as if I was going to get up, but didn't actually get out of my chair.
Now here's the part where I screw up.
As I'm yelling at Debbie to engage in a police action against our renegade spoon I decide to use a little psychology. The ape brain told me the best way to get Deb to control the situation would be to try and humiliate her. The ape brain is always correct. "What are you afraid of? Turn the thing off! It's not going to hurt you. Get in there and hit the switch."
Deb hit the switch and took the spoon into custody.
Now here's the part where I really screw up.
"Chicken."
Regardless of whether it was me or the ape brain someone decided to called Debbie a name at the same time her brain was awash with fight or flight induced adrenaline stirred in with pregnancy hormones. This was my extremely effective formula for disaster. But I'm not the one that sealed the deal.
"Mommy, you're a chicken," Allie said.
By the time Allie called her Mommy a chicken for the third time Deb fled the scene.
Allie and I sat at the dinner table silently staring at each other. I can honestly say I was looking to my three-year-old daughter to tell me what the next move was because I knew my ape brain could no longer be trusted.
We both went upstairs. I sent Allie into the bedroom ahead of me because the ape brain sensed danger. I watched Allie disappear into our room and when I didn't hear any sounds of violence I decided it was okay to go in myself.
Allie said she was sorry first. She beat me to the punch. Plus, she's got the unimpeachable credibility of innocence. That rendered anything I had to say impotent. But I said I was sorry anyway. Too little. Too late. However Deb was, as usual, levelheaded and gracious. Where I would have turned purple then sullen and inconsolable, Deb accepted both our apologies and allowed the family to continue with the evening as if nothing had happened.
Have I learned my lesson? Yes. As of this moment I am doing my best to control the ape brain.
Will the lesson stick? No. I'm guessing that, even as soon as this weekend, the ape brain will take control and I will need to beg forgiveness from someone or something.
I'm pretty sure it will be from my sister-in-law. We're headed to her house for a belated Easter dinner next weekend and I know I'll need to lay the groundwork for my ape brain's arrival.
Wish me luck.
. . . By the way, did I mention that just fifteen minutes prior to Deb grinding up a spoon I tried to destroy a dishrag down the same disposal? Deb thought that I should mention this. I didn't think it was that important.