Gandhi was right about one thing: if we all live with an eye for an eye mentality the entire world would be blind
I was in the kitchen working on dinner or some other daily monotony. The kids were playing (fighting) in the living room. It wasn't a crash - more like a THUNK followed by a darling "Uh oh," à la Noa. I enter the living room to find her standing over the remains of my mug - my favorite mug, hands clasped in front of her, head tilted in a oh, please don't be mad at me sort of way.
I survey the massacre, feeling the loss like a physical pain. It was my favorite. MY FAVORITE. It lay in two pieces, almost symmetrical, a dribble of morning coffee staining the floor like so many tears.
It wasn't in me to get mad. Here is the truth: I left the mug on the counter of which I am well aware that Noa can reach by climbing from chair to side table. I left it there with some naive belief that she would leave it alone, that the pretty colours wouldn't call her name, that she wouldn't be overcome with a need for a taste of whatever it is that mommy was drinking.
She is one. I am not. She has won. I have not. I shoulder the blame.
So I gather the pieces, cradle them like a fetus in the womb of my palm, tell myself that I have a million other mugs...(but it was the only one that wasn't chipped...it was the only one lined in red...STOP IT!) A mug is just a mug; a vessel for warmth, a comfort on a cool morning, an art piece in my cabinet. And what was I going to do anyway? Smash her sippy cup with a hammer?
I kiss Noa. I forgive Noa. I forgive myself.
Rest in pieces oh favorite mug of mine...