Spilled Milk

Last week, one of my eighth grade students posed this question:

"Mrs. Kauffman. What do you, like, DO, on Instagram?"

I thought--but not for too long--and asked her to clarify. So she did.

"I mean, like, what do you look at on there?"

I decided this was a valid question. Teachers sleep at school, never go home, never wear pajamas, and they certainly don't take selfies OR peruse social media.

So I rambled off a list of people I follow, in this order: DIYers, photographers, fashion bloggers, and moms.

Which brings me to today's post.

I was perusing my IG feed yesterday when I read a mini blog posted by a photographer (I happen to love the IG mini blog--an anecdote of inspiration) about spilled milk.

Her father had given her a story about a mom who, when her son spilled a gallon of milk on the floor, used the experience to teach a lesson: well, how should we clean it up? What tools should we use? And further, upon completion of the clean up, she let him practice carrying a full jug outside so he could get used to the awkward shiftiness of it.

Genius.

So you mean, like this mom?

I so want to be her.

I do. 

I wish wish WISH that I could repel flying orange soda with the hose from the kitchen sink and BE COMPLETELY OKAY with that. 

I wish that when milk goes tumbling across my kitchen table to form a lake so that the table looks like an enormous boat sailing in a sea of white that I DO NOT GET ANGRY. 

I wish that when these things happened I would laugh and say, "That's what paper towels are for!" 

Or even just maybe say, "Son, tell me, what do you think we should use to clean this up? No worries if you get it wrong the first three times and we actually end up just smearing warm milk film or better yet--sticky apple juice--all over the floor and into the crevices of cabinets. Mistakes happen. Let's learn!" 

I can't. 

Before we had kids, I watched one of those mom paper towel commercials and I said to Greg, "That'll be me. It's just milk. You clean it up. I will never get mad at my kids for doing that." 

Greg laughed hysterically and promised me he'd remind me of that declaration time and time again.

And he has.

But the truth is--me being honest, here--there are usually 38 other things going on when the milk spills, and it is usually preceded by a "PLEASE don't do that" (or ten) and someone is at the door, the dogs are barking, my pants are being yanked on because grapes are not cut up into miniscule pieces quickly enough, and the absolute last thing I want to do is STOP and clean it up. The chaos that was 38 things becomes the chaos that is now 39, and the whining intensifies and the dogs bark louder, and what was just a little Fred Astaire tap dance across my nerves becomes an all out marching band stomp and the only thing I want to do is YELL. 

If I did just stop, and take that deep breath, and ignore the 38 things, and gain a little perspective on the fact that it's JUST spilled milk and no one is choking or bleeding or with dangling appendage, then maybe I would find myself responding to more teachable moments and less moments of anger.

I would also have more time to take selfies. 

#chaos

#honestmom

#widn

I think the first step is being aware. Thank you, random photographer on my IG feed, for reminding me that I need to spend more time teaching and less time yelling. It's the truth in my classroom and needs to be the same in my home. 

We are so not starting these moments with a busted gallon of milk in the kitchen.

-Kristin