Do you see this gorgeous rosebush?
It is incredibly beautiful this time of year! The yellow roses are vibrant and the bush is loaded with them. In fact, it probably stands over six feet tall and is so laden down with roses that the branches droop downward.
In the short time we have lived at this place, I have come to thoroughly enjoy this rosebush – even though it is horribly thorny. It is still so beautiful and fragrant!
However, yesterday morning it had another fragrance added to it.
I barely had my eyes open when one of the kids poked their head into our bedroom with the announcement that Logan had thrown up. Oh joy. Another one down for the count.
We had been taking turns coming down with fevers and aching for the past week, some with tummyaches and some not. Now it was Logan’s turn.
The two older boys eagerly informed me of the whole story. Logan had started crying while upstairs, so they quickly grabbed a bucket and shoved it at him just in time. They had cleaned it all up without even needing Mom.
I was beginning to feel a little proud of my boys – and a sigh of relief that perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . the days of running buckets in six directions might be lessening.
Yet it took almost a full half hour for the story to sink into my fresh-from-sleep, disheveled blonde head.
Just where had they dumped the contents of the barf bucket?
Don’t ask me why these questions even come to us mamas, but maybe it is from years of doing all the barf cleanup with only Daddy’s help – and not quite trusting the kids to do it right themselves. Shame on me. I should have left well enough alone. It certainly would have made my Sunday morning cinnamon roll more appealing if I had not known the following details.
“I dumped it in your rosebush!”
My . . . WHAT?! Child, you didn’t. Please tell me you did not just dump stinky barf on my beautiful yellow roses!
“Yes, I dumped it on the right side so nobody would step on it!”
Oh how thoughtful.
Here is where a feeling of increasing horror began creeping down my spine. Sort of like where I must know the end to a bad story while wanting to plug my ears and squint my eyes shut.
Knowing I would regret asking . . . “Just where did you rinse out the barf bucket?” The grimace on my face would have told anybody that I already knew the answer.
“In your sink!”
Not my kitchen . . .
“Yes, your kitchen sink, Mom!”
Hand smacking my forehead, hair brush in one hand, and gasping for breath: You mean the kitchen sink I just cleaned a roast in?!!
There had been barf in the sink just minutes before I had begun Sunday dinner preparations?
Wait. Was I hearing laughter from Dad’s corner? Yep. Definitely laughter . . .
Eight o’clock Sunday morning saw me scrubbing out my kitchen sink before beginning to clean potatoes to go with the roast. Now I fully realize it was Sunday and we are to limit our work duties on that special day. But I also consider a kitchen sink used to rinse a barf bucket as the “ox that fell into the well” of the 21st century.
Once again, God had to remind me of how awful it can be to swallow one’s pride.
And if any of my future daughters-in-law read this post, I would like to remind you of three things:
- Protect your roses at all costs.
- Ask questions – even if you don’t wish to know the answer. It might save Sunday lunch.
- Love them for their heart. They tried, they really did.
Daddy, you can stop laughing now . . .