I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
April 11, 2009
>
“Oh no,” I said as I looked down at our new coffee table in the den. A thick blob of something was on the edge of the gleaming wood. I got a towel and quickly wiped it off, then sniffed it.”Hand sanitizer!” I said to Hubs. “Who had hand sanitizer?”
“Uh, Punky had some this morning,” Hubs said. “I guess she spilled a little in here.”
“Oh no,” I moaned, staring at the spot where the sanitizer had been. A milky white, very obvious stain had seeped permanently into the finish. My husband peered over my shoulder.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said. “Will it not come out?”
“Nooooooo,” I wailed. I wanted to cry. I know there are way more important things to get upset about than “stuff,” trust me, but for me one of the hardest parts of having kids has been watching so many of the things I’ve carefully saved for and collected over the years get dented or chipped or scratched or lost or broken. Particularly when they’re too expensive or rare to even contemplate replacing. Case in point?
The coffee table.
The next morning, Punky and I were sitting in the den when she looked at the coffee table and noticed the stain.
“What’s that, Mommy?” she asked.
“That is actually something that makes me very sad,” I said. “You know when you were playing with the hand sanitizer yesterday?” Punky nodded.
“Well, you spilled some on the table and I didn’t find it until last night and it made this horrible stain that won’t come out.” Punky rubbed her finger across it.
“Are you sure?” she asked skeptically. “Because it looks like milk or something.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said.
“Well, I didn’t mean to do it, Mommy,” she said.
“I know you didn’t, honey,” I said. “But this table was really special to me. And I was very happy when the grandparents gave it to us, and I don’t have money to buy another one. And now it has a big stain on it, and that makes me very sad.”
She thought for a moment.
“Well, this part kind of looks like a baseball,” she said. “It doesn’t look bad.”
“It does look bad,” I said quietly.
“Well, maybe other people won’t think it looks bad,” she reasoned. “Maybe they’ll like it.”
I sighed. “Punky, every grown up who sees that will know it’s not supposed to be there,” I said. “Trust me. They’ll think it looks bad.”
Punky was quiet for a few minutes as she watched television. She doesn’t get it, I thought morosely. She doesn’t even realize that if she’d been more careful, I wouldn’t be sad right now.
But then, Punky spoke. “Mommy, when’s your birthday?” she asked casually.
“It’s in two months,” I replied.
“Maybe you could ask for a new table for your birthday,” she offered.
“No, it’s too expensive,” I said. “I can’t get a new table for a while.”
“Well, you can borrow my money,” she said. I fought back a laugh. Punky thought she had saved up quite the nest egg, but the whole thing probably added up to two or three dollars.
“I’m afraid that won’t be enough,” I said.
She hopped down from her chair, came over to me and put her hands in my lap. Looking up at me with big, soulful eyes, she said, “I will work every day and make money and buy you a new table. I will do jobs every day until I get enough. I can clean my room and any other room that gets dirty.” She looked desperate.
“Punky,” I murmured, hugging my almost-five-year-old as I swelled with pride. “Thank you. You don’t have to buy me a new table. I know it was an accident. It makes me feel so good that you care enough to want to fix it.”
“I will though,” she said seriously. “I will save up my money and buy you a new table. I will!”
And so if in thirty or so years, a gift-wrapped coffee table shows up on my birthday?
I won’t be the least bit surprised.
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.