As promised in my last post, New Years Non-Resolutions, here is my full confession…
It was a normal afternoon. My sons and I were in the kitchen. I was making toast. When all of a sudden, for no reason at all (ok, I may have burned the toast), the smoke alarm- where it had been strategically placed on a cabinet directly above the toaster waiting year after year to be hung from the ceiling – began to go off.
Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.
I frantically waved the smoke out of the air and removed the offending item from the toaster (fine, I did burn the toast, happy?) so as to relieve the smoke alarm from duty.
But still – Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.
I climbed up on the counter and brought the alarm down to show it that all was well. Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.
I pushed its button in assurance. Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.
I begged, pleaded, demanded it stop. Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.
I threatened. I threatened it with a short trip and a quick end; as in –“Stop or I will throw you against the wall”. You can’t say it wasn’t duly notified. Surely it could hear the crazed frustration in my warning.
And still – Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.
So in the interest of follow through, you know good parenting and all that, I chucked it as hard as I could at the nearest kitchen wall. It crashed against that wall – pieces of plastic flying, battery hanging out like entrails, cover dislodging as it landed with a thud on the floor.
Finally…it was quiet. We all three stood frozen in the silence; me, reveling in the peace; the boys, awestruck at my conviction (or… fearing for the potential loss of a few more cards from my deck). 10 seconds…20 seconds…30 seconds…
Then it happened. Out of the silence in a ‘man down but not out’ kind of way, labored and painful, slurring like the moo of a drunken cow (if cows could, you know, belly up) came the smoke alarm’s final words –
Bluuurrrp, Bluuurrrp, Bluuurrrp, Bluuurrrp – As it continued, despite all aggressions, to attempt to do its job.
We stood. We stared. Our jaws dropped open. And then, we laughed hysterically until our bellies hurt.
In the end, it was decided the smoke alarm had earned retirement with full benefits (but no severance pay), I should never make toast without the aid of Mother’s Little Helper (the prescription kind) and Dad/Husband should be called immediately the next time a machine in our house malfunctioned (and even with this assurance, my machines have never since treated me the same…)
What is the point to this twisted machine abuse story?
Simply this- It is moments like this that I live for. The kind that get funnier with each retelling. The kind that teeter on the edge of crazy. The kind my kids will remember. The kind where I get to laugh with them.
The kind that teaches them no matter how bad, frustrating or crazy things are, if you can laugh, life is good.