I’ve been working on refinishing this table my husband found for free on the side of the road.
The top was kind of messed up, so my dad took it off, flipped it over, and put it back on.
Then he painted it black.
I’m putting a checkerboard on top. There are multiple steps and coats of paint involved, so it’s taking a while.
Yesterday I was painting out by the garage in the driveway. I had to run inside quickly to get something.
About 30 seconds after I came inside, Number 5 ran in behind me.
“Mommy! Number 6 is painting on the table!!!” she yelled.
Serenity fucking now.
I ran outside, yelling.
“NO! NOOOO! Put that brush down!
Number 6 froze. He dropped the brush. He didn’t move.
“I SAID GET. IN. SIDE.”
I hadn’t reached the driveway yet, and I couldn’t see what damage he had done.
He still hadn’t moved.
I was getting more and more angry as I neared the table.
“Number 6. Get inside. If you messed up my table,
I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!!!”
His eyes grew large.
He started walking.
And through the tears, yelling,
DON’T KILL ME!
DON’T KILL ME MOMMY!!!!”
Who was doing the damage now?
Another childhood scar.
I ran over and gave him a hug.
“I’m sorry. Mommy was just angry. I’m not going to kill you.”
The crying subsided.
He was over it.
Later last night as I was putting him to bed,
rocking him in the chair and singing him a song,
and we were having a nice, intimate, quiet mother-son moment,
he looked up at me,
and in his sweet little voice he said,
We had played outside, and read a couple books. We went to pick up t-shirts and had a big laugh in the car when Number 7 was being really funny.
I didn’t know which one he was going to bring up.
“Wemembah in the dwiveway when you said you wah going to kill me?”
I guess he wasn’t over it.
That one might have left a mark.
Forget the college funds.
I think it’s time to start a therapy fund.
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