Crying Over Spilt Milk

There's the saying, "There's no good crying over spilt milk," which is to say that huffing and puffing over something that has already happened, that wasn't that big of a deal anyway, is silly.   Unless it's pumped breastmilk. That shit is liquid gold and I have totally bawled over accidentally knocking over a bag of freshly squeezed boob juice.

Really, I let little things go. Especially that lowly cow's milk (insert sancti-mommy "human milk for human babies" phrase and eyeroll).

But today.  Today is different.

It's 8am. I had a heck of a day yesterday and spent a good portion at the Mac Store repairing this trusty companion I write with to you today.  This morning I started finishing editing and copying images for a photography client that should have been completed yesterday.

I few moments ago I heard the familiar ting of a spoon in a cereal bowl. Ah, morning.

WHAT.

The kids already ate twenty minutes ago.  The breakfast table is clear. Why is that sound happening? Why is that sound happening in our living room?

I crept around the half wall to find E3 banging around in Daddy's cereal bowl he left on the end table.  There was just enough milk and Cheerios hanging out in it to pour down the side of the armchair and mash into the carpet.

UUUGGGHH. I had to gather the cleaning supplies and go forth to the battle field.  While battling the milk soaking into the carpet pad that will undoubtedly make that corner of the living room sour for a month, I hear it.

It's a splash followed by a plastic bump.  Instinctively I know.

You see, E2 has this habit of taking a few bites of breakfast then wandering around for twenty minutes. He will again sit to eat no less than three moments before we have to rush out the door to make whatever appointment we are already late for.

Which means one thing: E3 struck again.  I made it to kitchen to see the milk dripping off of the table and chair onto my freshly cleaned hardwood. E3 was trying to use Big Brother's spoon to eat the remaining CoCo Puffs out of the bowl.

I had to clean an even bigger mess and just tossed him into the high chair with the remaining floor soup.

I think I give up. If you come over, bring house shoes. My floors are sticky.