I spilled some milk today.
I’m not talking about a glass being knocked over onto the kitchen table. I’m talking about slamming on the brakes on the way back from the farm and half-gallon glass jars full of it flying all over the car. Miraculously, only one of them shattered. Miraculously, the giant stag with the magnificent rack of antlers missed impact by a hair’s breadth and I still have a face. And a car. And there’s still a breathtakingly beautiful, ginormous creature bounding through the woodsy woods.
The car had a half gallon of milk in the passenger foot well. And a bazillion tiny shards of glass.
I can use the past tense because C came home and immediately took over from my failed attempts at remedying the situation. Tactics deployed include doing a better job with the shop vac than I did, engaging the car’s foot well fan while simultaneously running a portable electric heater, and now…re-charging my car battery.
It had been a relatively pleasant day, before the milk thing. Honestly, truly, I managed not to cry about it, but in the two hours following the incident, I was sure the world was falling apart and I understood why spilled milk might elicit such a reaction. Or any unfortunate incident that drastically alters the course of the day’s events.
I had chores to do, dinner guests coming, yarn to spin (for Stitches! Are you coming??), a fire to re-start because I’m a shitty fire-tender, a hungry kid who wanted me to read to him, and I was tangled in extension cords and pulling glass out of my fingers.
And then C came home, like a freaking knight in shining armor, and I didn’t even let myself feel totally lame about the fact that I was actually a damsel in distress, feeling overwhelmed and under-equipped. I needed rescue, and that was okay. In fact it was better than okay because he just said, calmly, “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”
I don’t expect this. I don’t take rescue for granted. He has a big, stinky pile of problems of his own to deal with, broken stuff to fix, and never-ending chores. Home life is a second full-time job. But he can still come home to my added messes and disasters and greet me tenderly, ready to spread out his cloak to keep me out of the mud.
That, I may just cry about. With gratitude.