Breakable

I’ve been getting life wrong lately. I’ve been focusing my attention in the wrong areas, wasting time on the wrong things, the wrong people. I let my temper flare around my children but cower in a corner when I should be speaking up elsewhere. I’m just not jiving with life lately. There’s friction between us, life and me.

Wyatt broke a vase of flowers yesterday after I repeatedly told him not to play with the flowers. Since the boys have been mobile, our home has been minimalistic out of necessity. Bare tables, low shelves empty, anything breakable out of reach. They will be four in June. I mean, it’s time, right? They might still be tiny tornadoes but surely with more self control than a year ago? Two years ago? So, flowers in a glass vase on the kitchen table. It was time. Only Luke snapped off the head of a flower and Wyatt “On guard!”-ed the vase with a pirate sword and that was the end of that. I wanted to scream, truthfully. Not for the broken vase or homeless flowers, but because IT IS TIME.

I snapped, I snarled, I hissed. “I’m sorry, mama,” he said, all saucer eyes and tilt of the head, and I stood there and took a breath. I put the towel down and let the water seep to the edge of the table.

I was getting it all wrong. Life, pay me no mind. It isn’t broken vases I treasure.

Life, please do not break my children.

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