Our 6-year-old son Ben is going through a squirrelly phase at dinner time. He would much rather tell stories, squirm around in his chair, laugh at jokes, and generally be disruptive, rather than even think of eating dinner. This would explain his scarecrow-like physic. Tonight, we ate outside and Ben happened to be sitting on my left. As the scarecrow boy squirmed to and fro, I paid little attention and concentrated on my food.
Turns out, I was also sitting slightly downhill, because during dinner I heard a soft crash. Looking to my left, I saw a cascade of milk traveling toward my plate. Soon it traveled around my plate and spilled onto the deck to my right. Tiny drops landed on my leg, as a steady stream of 2% splashed on the deck’s wood.
Watching the commotion, as everyone else at the table convinced Ben to finally head toward the kitchen for paper towels, I surprised myself. I did not jump up to help. I did not scurry to grab towels. I resisted all temptation to fix the problem. I let my child take ownership. I let him fix the problem. This would appear to some as inaction or an uncaring stance, but au contraire, this had been a huge step forward for me. I was actually doing the right thing. Not overreacting, but rather being calm. Almost sedate.
Maybe my years of parenting have mellowed me. Maybe it was the spill proof deck. Maybe it was the cool summer breeze. Regardless, I now realize that upon reaching the “Age of Milk Spill” with my third child, I had embodied a new state. A strange new calm. Somewhat chill. Which by the way is an appropriate temperature for 2% milk.
