I asked my family to help me think of something to do with ‘break’ and Sassy suggested, “How about the time I broke that plate and I cried and cried and you kept tellin me it was okay but I just kept cryin?”
Hi, my name is Joey and I break things.
You may recall this from other blogs.
You may recall my beautiful porcelain floors are trying to ruin every vintage piece in my kitchen? How I yearn to have a bouncy linoleum floor?
I have previously written I am exactly the kind of person who would be involved in one of those unfortunate firearm incidents, self-inflicted injury of course — accidentally shoot my knife rack down, impale myself, get punctured by ricochet — great physical comedy. Watch as I try to stop the bleeding with an odd sock.
I also mentioned how I admire the Royal Albert Old Country Roses pattern, but would never own a piece because I am the kind of person who seems to forget that my china cabinet has glass doors, and one of these days I just know Imma slam em to shards while trying to remove my specifically non-china teapot.
So yeah. My mother? She IS elegant and graceful and deft and all that crap.
When my parents downsized the first time, she redecorated. White sofa. Glass tables. Crystal. Glass oil-burning doojis. Wrought-iron and glass candle thingies. Glass and brass tabletop clock. Lots of glass. Lots and lots of glass. If anyone can live in a glass house, it’s my mother.
I couldn’t even use a plastic comb without breaking it. I remember the day I broke the comb. It was yellow. I was eight. I was terrified to show her. My mother was not mean, you understand, she never punished me for breaking things.
She didn’t have to. I was one of those annoyingly sensitive children who cried at everything. You know the type, the ones that always have snotty noses and more feeeeeeelings than kleenexes.
I cannot tell you what all I broke. I remember a constant barrage of “Please be careful,” lotsa breath sharply sucked through her teeth, tons of disappointment, and fear. Fear of upsetting her. Again.
I vowed to tell my kids It’s okay. Accidents happen. Good thing, too, because two of them are clumsy, three of them are Highly Sensitive Persons, and one of them is part monkey. They’ve broken so many things, I couldn’t even begin to tell you. Things I forget I ever owned. Some of the broken things I still own. It helps that I’m a casual living sorta person.
It’s been a big help to live with a man who is in total control of his body. Sometimes I’ll say to him, “I want to ____ the ____, but I know if I try, I’ll break it, and so I wondered if maybe you could–”
Cause he knows.
And when I break, he fixes.
SoCS brake/break is brought to you by LindaGHill