I have to admit it.
I'm not always a nice person.
I've had my moments.
This is my worst one . . .
I was doing something important!
Well . . . important to me.
All right, I was reading.
But it was a good book!
You're right. I have no excuse . . .
We had a large family.
And several hired men.
Meals were plentiful.
The dishes following said meal? Numerous.
And the time required to clean them?
“Diane this is the second time I've called you! Come and wash the dishes!”
It was my turn.
But . . . my book!
Mom poked her head into the living room, where I was so happily engrossed. “Diane, this is the third time. I'm not going to ask you again!”
Oh good. If she wasn't going to ask me again that meant I was in the clear, right?
Dad came out of his office. “Diane.”
“Fine.” I carefully closed my book and set it down. Then, feet dragging, headed mutinously for the kitchen.
And the 'mountain' of dishes waiting for me.
Mom was putting the last of the left-overs away.
“The dishwasher's empty, dear,” she said.
“Hrmphrfmphmrfamum,” I said.
I should point out a couple of things here.
Our dishwasher was the 'roll out' kind.
It normally resided under the cupboard.
When needed, it was pulled into the centre of the room, loaded with dishes, and rolled to the sink.
Where it was connected to the faucet.
It was heavy.
And my mom, she-of-the-annoying-habit-of-finding-chores, was standing directly in front.
I grabbed the handle and, regardless of what portion of my mother's body was in the way, pulled.
I caught the toes of one of her feet under the front of the dishwasher.
She yelped and jumped out of the way.
I mumbled an unconvincing apology and, feeling rather ashamed of myself, continued with my chore.
I really didn't mean to hurt my mom.
I was crabby and feeling ornery.
And that's absolutely no excuse.
Forty years later, I still regret it.
Temper and immaturity.
Not a good combination.
To this day, I wish I could kiss that poor bruised foot and tell her how sorry I am.
Maybe someday, I'll get the chance.