It’s a typical Sunday morning: Connor’s in the La-Z-Boy, playing on his tablet — sounds like Angry Birds at the moment — and I’m sitting on the couch, taking care of random stuff on my laptop while doing laundry.
“Mom! Wanna watch these piggies go into orbit?”
Connor jumps out of the recliner and beelines for the couch, bumping the “vintage” coffee table with the wobbly leg, sloshing some coffee out of my cup.
We both freeze and stare at the coffee puddle for a moment. It’s not bad — just a splash. I smirk at him.
“As soon as you grab some paper towels!”
He tosses his tablet back into the chair and runs into the kitchen. I pick up my sewing notebook, which now has a quarter-sized coffee stain on the current page. No biggie. What little coffee has pooled on the page drips off as Connor returns with a few paper towels.
We blot up the spill. Nothing’s ruined, no one’s mad, no worries. I tell Connor I’ll take care of throwing the wet paper towels away in a minute, and he goes back to the chair to get his tablet.
“Hey, Mom,” he deadpans as he walks back to sit next to me, “wanna watch your coffee go into orbit?”