Glass exploded through my kitchen. That’s what happens when you throw a mason jar. I didn’t really throw it. But my hand holding the glass was in motion when it collided with the stone countertop, and the effect was the same: glass explosion.
My first thought was “How far away is he?” as I considered whether my child was safe and whether I needed to shout a warning not to move, to stay motionless like I was, barefoot in a sea of glass shards.
He was far enough away to be fine, but I was sure he was startled, perhaps alarmed. I was about to turn and face him and say… something.
What I wanted to do was scream. Cry. Lose it. Yell.
Exactly 5 minutes before, I’d found my pet rabbit dead in his cage. My kid didn’t know yet. I was trying to get through this meal, and then I’d tell him, but the simple act of filling a glass of water had exploded all around me.
Later, maybe, I’d cry with my son. We’d be sad about Hops, who was an awesome rabbit friend for a long time.
But right now, I was showing how to react to a broken dish. For a mama who has recurring depression, these moments are hard for me when I just want to fall apart. But for a kid who beats himself up about little mistakes sometimes, these moments and how I react are important.
So I turned and smiled and said something gentle about how hard the counter was, and then I got a broom and a dustpan and cleaned up the glass.
And that was that. Mere moments. But something crucial was contained there nonetheless.
I am sometimes surprised by the resilience I manage to find in myself, inspired by my desire to be a good example for little watching eyes. And I hope someday my kid is pleased to discover his own resilience, inspired by his mama who smiled even when things were broken.