That moment, when you are on the phone with a friend and you have to say, “I’m sorry, I have to hang up and panic now. I have half a bottle of rubber cement spilled across my hardwood floor.”
And in the back of your mind, a little voice is crying, “But my boys are nineteen and sixteen.”
Yeah, I had that moment.
While Elder spun in useless circles, my husband grabbed a dishtowel, and I threw up both hands, palms out, and begged, “Can’t we just use paper towels?”
Because I knew I wouldn’t throw a dishtowel soaked in rubber cement into my washing machine and hope for only good things.
So, a roll of paper towels and a bottle of floor cleaner later, we were fairly confident the floor had been rescued. And Elder hugged me goodbye with another apology and hauled books and laundry to his car. Sitting on the edge of the garage floor, my arm around our border collie so she wouldn’t chase him, I waved at Elder as he rolled down the drive.
The dog licked my face.
And I gingerly climbed to my feet to return to the house.
Two hours later, Elder called. “Hey, Mom, I forgot my student ID.”
“Don’t you need the ID to get into your room?”
I love Elder with my whole heart.
And that’s the only reason we are both still alive.