In my continuous efforts at damage control (and friendship and gratitude), bake a pie for carpool friends Sunday morning. In continuous efforts at nutrition, health, and brain balance, give McDiesel his two vitamins. Unclear if colors (usual favorites) are responsible or if vitamins placed too close to plate–or what–but before my own brain (formerly better balanced and now clearly haywire) can process vitamins sailing across room, hot pot of melted butter (one cup–a lot of melted butter–required for recipe) flung across kitchen and into laundry room.

Hot butter all over floor, dripping down cabinets, dishwasher, and pajamas.

Impress myself and put bedside reading (both mindfulness book and neurobehavior book) to use by not completely losing my sh–my mind. Refrain—miraculously—from raising my voice or inflicting bodily harm. Drag McD up the stairs, drop him in his room, and close door. Angrily, but still: impressive.

Triage. Pie baking on hold for more emergent damage control. (Story of my life, feels like.) Seven-year-old wading through butter in flipflops (mine), and puppy sliding across kitchen floor (paws, ears, belly).

Phone chimes. Text from mother. Cheerful. Hopeful. “How are things??” Somehow, she knows. Telepathy definitely real.

Do not—cannot—answer text.

Expel seven-year-old and puppy from kitchen. Clean floor, cabinets, dishwasher. Retrieve pot (my best All-Clad) from laundry room floor.

Go upstairs to get Sunday School clothes and come upon unexpected scene. McD not sneaking out of room or even playing in playroom. Instead, he is lying on bed, looking out window, holding blankie, sucking thumb. Small and quiet and angelic (looking).

Guilt. Sadness. Frustration. Is he thinking what I’m thinking? That he can’t really help it? That his Swiss cheese of a right brain is to blame? That living with no brakes and in crisis mode is exhausting and frustrating? That he’s lucky I have more butter?

I look at him, and he looks at me.

“Know why I threw it?” He asks around his thumb.

“Right brain deficiency?” I say (maybe putting cards on the table somehow beneficial?).

“No,” he answers (incorrectly). “Because you put those vitamins there.”  (So… color and existence and placement of vitamins?)

“Is there anything else you want to say?” I sit on bed with him.

“Don’t make a pie for them.” He smiles (mischievously, not angelically). “… Sorry.”

It’s over. Damage controlled: kitchen restored, more butter melting, puppy licking paws, boys playing and laughing.

Text mother: “Fine. Same. :)”

2 thoughts on “Butter

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