I’m a murderer of all things glass. My left pinky bares the scar of a glass that fought back, rather brutally, with its final crack. Ryan has taken to gathering spare glasses wherever they can be found. And if people have a few extras, they appear on my cupboard’s stoop, reporting for their doom.
For a while, when full genocide of glassware seemed imminent, I began gathering jars. Former sauce, jelly or pickle jars were deemed perfectly appropriate to be promoted to glassware for water, iced tea or soda.
Mostly this only seemed problematic when four people arrived at our house and we simply had no avenue for quenching their thirst. Installing an indoor hose to drink like children with dirty bare feet on a summer day seemed the only plausible option, considering glass and I were simply not made to mingle.
Reinforcements were recently recruited in large numbers. Our cupboard is overflowing with glass, so much so, that I feel nothing for them anymore. I practically think it would be useful for some of them to smash or splinter, so I could clear some space.
Fortunately for them, my murder-some nature has moved onto the family of pots. My normally sharp mind, has become rather murky with the carrying of a child, and the murkiness has targeted my steamer pot.
I seem to steam broccoli and corn merely by desire, forgetting to add the key ingredient of water. I let this happen for 30 minutes at a time before discovering, right before I plan on eating, that I haven’t in fact steamed anything. I’ve merely sent the pots away fuming at my neglect. And my poor child is going without his veggies.
The bottom of the pot is now rid of its cooper coating. The inside wears black and blue stains with disdain.
But I shall not be rid of it yet, until I return to the glasses.
Read more by purchasing my book, Cling: Faith Lesson’s from my Son’s Early Years.