It is not a good time to be a piece of glass in my house. Or to be a pair of bare feet for that matter. I don't know what it is, but as of late I have been breaking a lot of things. A lot of things that shatter into little pieces that can hurt you if you step on them. And there is always a little piece left to step on. I don't know what it is, but when glass shatters, at least in our house, with our tile floors, it does not matter how thoroughly the floor is swept, and mopped, and vacuumed, there are always one or two minuscule pieces of glass left lurking to inflict harm. Ryan has stepped on one of these pieces, I have not. I think I am the one that really suffered though, since I had to listen to him complain, and then clean the blood spots off the carpet.
It isn't like I haven't broken stuff before. I can destroy a set of wine glasses with the best of them, especially if they are nice ones. However, lately random glass things have been breaking in my hands. Last week I broke the eye dropper for my facial serum (yes I am old), a porcelain picture frame, and TWO jars of differetnpickled things (we eat a lot of pickles).
Tonight I was reaching into the fridge to grab something and I knocked an almost full bottle of wine onto the floor. In slow motion I watched it break into a million pieces. Now, I don't know about you, but WE DO NOT WASTE WINE IN THIS HOUSE. I thought about licking it up for a moment, but then realized I would badly cut my tongue, and that it would probably not be a good lesson for my new daughter. I mean, she'll learn about my personality soon enough. Anyway, back to the breakage. It took at least an hour to clean up the mess. I wanted to make sure I got every piece, just in case in the middle of the night Meg decides she wants to start crawling. I thought I had it all up. Of course, when I walked into the kitchen a moment ago there it was, that one small green piece, glinting up at me.
I guess that I could read all kinds of things into my increasing butterfingers: that my new motherhood is making realize how fragile life is, that my new motherhood is making me more clumsy because I am so focused on my daughter, or that I am more concerned about safety because of the babies. Yeah, I guess it could be all of those things, but I'm not that deep.
I am thinking that if this goes on I will have to replace the floors with bubble wrap. Or at least ban all glass items in the house. Damn it, we can't have nice things! I guess I can learn to appreciate box wine out of sippy cups. And pickles can be transferred from their jars to Tupperware before they cross the threshold. I mean, at least until Meg is old enough to wear shoes and weild a broom. It's the least I can do to be a good mother, and to keep Ryan from ruining the rugs.