It was a "weak" moment. I have been very tired this week, on account of spikes up in responsibilities on multiple fronts. Amy was out so I had the kids solo at dinnertime. Aaron was being, well, Aaron. And when he dropped his plate of chicken nuggets on the floor, spilling ketchup and crumbs everywhere, that was the last straw for me.
I come from a family that has an almost unhealthy reverence for food, so throwing or spilling food just irks me. Amy has reminded me on several occasions that when the kids spill stuff, we need to go easy on them. And I am usually able to throttle back my dismay.
But not last night. I turned around when I heard plate hit floor, saw the damage, and immediately threw up my hands and exclaimed, "Aaron! What are you doing?" I then huffed and puffed at him while cleaning up the mess on the floor, and, returning the plate of nuggets to him, lectured him: "Be careful! Jeesh!"
Leave it to my four-year-old daughter to teach me a lesson. She patted me on the shoulder and said, "It's OK, Dada, it was an accident." She said it so sweetly, so perfectly, that as miffed as I was at her being right and I wrong, I could not help but accept the sweetness that her comment represented. I apologized to Aaron for losing my temper, thanked Jada for her reminder, and we three got back to dinner: they continued eating their nuggets, and I ate crow.
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