In the doghouse

While I was cleaning the kitchen this morning and talking on the phone to my next door neighbor about her horrible divorce, I could tell Laura and Will were having some large conflict involving water. I ignored it as long as I could, until finally I felt compelled to intervene in this by commanding that all containers of water be brought to me—this instant, and don’t you argue with me young man and I don’t care who got the water out first and whatnot. Of course, about two seconds later I was distracted again by the even dumber thing my ex-neighbor said at the divorce mediation, and I promptly forgot to follow up on this order, which was diminished in the first place by being hollered from the kitchen rather than delivered in person.

I feel sure you know something bad is coming next.

A couple of hours later I found, shockingly enough, several large water stains and a cup sitting in its own perfect ring on my lovely old dresser. Probably it wasn’t an official antique when I got it, but that was thirty years ago now, so it probably qualifies at this point. Since I was already well versed this morning in parental clichés, it seemed only right to yell at Will and Laura: You two are in the doghouse.

After about two minutes of confused questions from Wiliam, it became abundantly clear that he had no idea what on earth I meant, but that he definitely knew he was in trouble. Off he went crying to Daddy to make that dog go away—I guess the one making Mommy so Godzilla-like. I never know what to do in these cases. Follow the immediate impulse and laugh? Move into the comforting parent role and then come back to Discipline and Doom Mom later?

Thankfully Chris took over at this point and I heard some comfort, some explanations, some mild fussing, all while I googled wood damage water rings. A peanut butter sandwich later, a little application of mayonnaise on the dresser, and evidently we’ve restored temporary harmony to the world. Who’d have thought mayonnaise was so powerful?