Laughing (and learning) over Spilt Milk

You know that plaintive cry? The one that you hear and you just know things are amiss? The one that you hear and you wonder - "Should I pretend to be asleep?" "Should I ignore that?"

I heard it this weekend.

"Daaaaaad!" It was not loud. It was not a scream. It was more like a question. In fact, it would be better expressed as "Daaaad?!" To make matter slightly more interesting, it was coming from the garage, and we were on our way out.

I mentally scrolled through the Rolodex of answers, "Yes?" "What?" "What have you done?" "Come here!" "Can I help?"

None of them seemed to fit the moment and I was on my way to the garage anyway.

I sneaked my head around the corner. There, valiantly stopping the garage from being carried away in a flood of UHT milk, stood my boy. With feet firmly planted, he braced against the tide of white fury, pressing his hands up against the six pack. A modern day equivalent of the Dutch hero who placed his finger in a dyke. With one minor difference. The Dutch hero was an innocent passer by who had the courage to place himself in between the flood and the rest of Holland. My boy was the instigator.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Uuuh. The milk has broken." The little voice belied his bravery with a small quiver.

"I see. Any idea how it broke?"

"Uuuuh...."

"Perhaps a stick got stuck in the box?" I offered helpfully, seeing the offending weapon lying on the floor, its sharpened point glistening with guilt

"Uuuuh...."

"What should we do?" I asked. (Was it cruel to stand apart from the epicentre of the event, and observe? Even though my direct intervention was called for? Dunno. But it was more fun, this way!) I was clearly mentally gearing up for a "teachable moment".

"Fix it, Dad"

And my resolve melted. Dads can fix anything. Even broken milk.

P.S. Sticks are no longer brought into the house. This was always the rule, but the impact has now been seen. Nothing like a little bit of experience to just tap that lesson into place.