This morning I spent well over an hour fussing over my printer, which was not doing what it was supposed to be doing: grabbing the paper. It was still printing, though, so I knew something was either not connected, jammed, or misguided (sort of like me some days). I fiddled, I used those cans of Spray Air, I blew hard, and I even unplugged, turned off, and replugged, in case I was just being too hasty. In desperation I even got out the manual and leafed through it, just like Richard the Sensible does, but the ideas it gave me did nothing to alleviate my printer's malaise.
The really odd thing was that this printer had worked perfectly well the night before. No hiccups. No tears, rips, or bent edges. The other really odd thing was that the night before I had observed the Teenager huck a teeny tiny little ball of paper at the wall above the printer. "What ARE you doing?" I said, rather loudly and indignantly. "That went in the printer! In MY printer!"
"No, it didn't," he said uneasily. "It went over it. I saw it. It really did." Then he went and fussed around the back, pretending to see the ball of paper on the ground.
I should have known. Really. I should have. It was one of those 'realized it later' moments, of course. At the time, I merely rolled my eyes inwardly, winced slightly at the seeming lack of brain cells he seemed to be experiencing, thought "it had better NOT have fallen into that printer but I know it did and if I stick my head deep enough into the sand maybe everything will be fine in the morning" and went back to Daleks In Manhattan, which we were watching on the computer with the twins.
So the next morning I fussed with the printer until we had to leave for another event. I fussed through all the time I had set aside for language studies, for the end of the Celts, even for baking some muffins to take to our friends house. By the time we left I was in a thoroughly foul humour. Stupid printer. Stupid bank account that wouldn't buy me a new one. Stupid moving company who parked in front of my driveway and tried to make ME out to be the baddie because I was home during the day and thus messing with their parking plans. Stupid cold weather. Stupid bird poo on my windscreen.
Yes, Gentle Reader, I was so not a Jane Austen heroine today. I wasn't quite Beowulf's mother, (because I was doing a rather heroic job of submerging my irritations) but I was close.
Luckily our afternoon appointment did much to alleviate my festering grouch and it wasn't until we got home that I remembered my non-printing printer. Fortunately Richard the Man With A Plan came home right afterwards. During a rather intimate clinch with the printer he spied a teeny tiny ball of paper. Stuck. "There seems to be a teeny ball of paper stuck in it," he said out loud, to no one in particular. "Way down low. A small rolled up ball of paper."
Silence fell upon the house. The sort of silence that is composed of equal parts Dawning Teenage Horror, Grim Motherly Realization, and Giddy Twin Glee. A heady mixture if there ever was one.
Sudden intake of breath as Max dashes out the front door. He may or may not have been pursued by me, clutching a teeny tiny ball of wadded up paper, threatening to stuff it up his nose. He may or may not have been laughing (or hyperventilating a bit). I may or may not have been breathing heavily. In a maddened, motherly sort of way.
Luckily, I got mine back. Max was on Dish Duty at dinner.
A day or two ago Dominic had a bit of a snit about something that had happened to him. Something he didn't think was fair at all. Something that involved bedtime and Doctor Who. Dominic and I had Words. Serious Words. He went to bed in a huff. I saw him off to bed in a bit of a huff myself. Then, the next morning he came into the kitchen with a little card. He handed it to me, then leaned against me as I read it. It read:
To Mummy, I am really sorry about the Event that happened last night. Sorry. Please forgive me. I was Really Grouchy.
I read it, then glanced down at him. What touched me more than anything, more than the fact that my hasty hasty child had actually sat up and written me a Sorry Note, in mid huff, more than the fact that he was being so deeply solicitous, more than the fact that he was being so mature and reflective and responsible for his behaviour, was this: he had CAPITALIZED his emphatic words! He's a chip off my old block, I thought. I even told him so. I might have wiped a little tear away at the same time, too.
In the midst of giving me a foot massage and telling me how wonderful my Mother's Day is going to be (because Parties, Special Days, and Holidays really are her forte), FDPG dashed out of the room. She raced back in seconds later, tossed this piece of paper at my hand, and dashed out again, blowing me a kiss on the way.
Here is the piece of paper.
"I didn't have time to draw your hair," she explained later. "Just in case you think I think of you as bald. Because I don't."
Phew. I am not bald in my child's eyes.
The spelling of "pooh" is inside joke: What was Tigger doing in the toilet?
Looking for Pooh.