Breaking Things

"Hopefully nothing breaks.  Things always seem to break when husbands travel for more than a couple of days,” a friend told me sweetly.

What?!?!?!

My stuff wouldn't break. Or, rather, it couldn’t break!  I’m awful with tools. There are so many different kinds and they are all so confusing and loud (if they plug in) and, for pete’s sake, they are DANGEROUS!  If I can manage to slice off the tip of my finger and half a finger nail bed with a simple vegetable peeler [true story, I have pictures to prove it], can you imagine the damage I could do with something like this?!

I guess we will just have to be careful then.  Yep!  We can do that.  The wee ones and I would be very careful and...

“Moooooooomm! Look what happened!” Little Man pointed to his toy, which was, oh no, BROKEN.

But hey!  That’s alright.  He’s barely four years old and, you know, things inevitably break when a four-year-old is hanging around them.

It’s all good.  As long as nothing major severed, shattered or smashed, I’d be hunky-dory.

A few hours later I was on the davenport, trying to concentrate on an episode of TLC’s “Four Weddings”. I am rarely able to catch the show, but I’m totally addicted to it.  I was busy trying to decide what in the world these crazy, botox, bride-zillas were doing?  Wow!  The catty, snarky comments from the uptight Manhattan-ite were some grand zingers.  And the bride with BIG hair from Alabama was serving crocodile to her guests.  Then there was the Wisconsin bride who said that dancing and drinking are the Devil’s work. I thought she was going to have a brain aneurism at the over the top, high-society (wannabe), New York wedding.  I bet -

Ka-thunk!

WTH?!  That was the sound of a piece of molding from the living room end table hitting the floor.

“Seriously?” I said out loud.

“Seriously?” Little Princess mimicked.

“I didn’t do it!” Little Man chimed in.

Oh for goodness sake! Suppose my minivan broke down next? I don’t speak car.  What would I do? I mean I have been known to corner car mechanics and come up with intelligent comments such as, “Yes, the black thing under the hood looks funny and it’s making this scary noise.  Kind of like a ticked-off cat growling when my baby grabs his tail...” But darn!  Aren’t most things under the hood black? The only thing I know about transportation is that the engine lives under the hood... and is black. Crappity, crap, crap!

I managed to fix the end table.  Duct tape and/or a hot glue gun can be a gal’s best friend.

Alrighty then!

Everything was kosher again. Please, oh please, do not let anything else break.

Later we settled down the eat dinner.

I settled down into my chair seat and....

Oh, nevermind the gory details. 

Dramatically, I bellowed, “ARGH! I’m cursed!”

“Me too!” sighed Big E, equally dramatic, as she copied me.

“Do I have to eat my peas?” is all Little Man had to offer.

Little Princess just cackled her evil laugh that reminds me of a mad-scientist.

The good news is… nothing else has splintered, burst into flames or disintegrated since then.

The bad news is… I still have two days until That Man is scheduled to arrive home.

So please. Please. PLEASE!  Let that have been it.

(Ironically, right after I finished the entry, one of my kitchen ceiling fans stopped working.)