Yesterday morning, I woke around 5:30 as usual to get ready for work. It’s still dark at that time, so I have to turn on the lights in each room as I go through them. Once I’m finished getting ready, I shut off the lights upstairs, and head downstairs into the darkness to feed the #mewcrew. And yesterday was no exception.
I reached the kitchen, hit the switch, and everything appeared normal. I made coffee, then fed them their breakfast, as they begged as if they hadn’t eaten in two weeks. Berlioz finished first as he always does, so I stood guard by Wednesday’s dish, so she could finish eating in peace, like I always do. Once we finished this song and dance, I packed my lunch, and headed upstairs to say goodbye to my husband. I came back down, put on my jacket, and stopped in the sunroom to read my quote of the day, which I read every morning from “365 Days of Wonder.”
I walked unassumingly into the dark sunroom, and turned the light on, so I could get my daily dose of motivation, but as I turned around to grab the book, I saw it. The utter destruction and devastation that was previously hidden by the early morning darkness.
Berlioz (I’m sure it was him and not Wednesday) had knocked over my big, beautiful plant in the night. There was dirt, leaves and death everywhere. Plus a tennis ball, which I really still can’t figure out what, if any part it played in this whole debacle. I stood there, staring at it, while the tears began streaming down my face (I’ve been extra emotional these days). I did my best to scoop the dirt back into the pot, but part of the plant was broken off, and dirt was embedded into the carpet and I had to get to work at some point. So I went back upstairs (this sounds familiar) and woke up my husband like before, and told him (well, more like sobbed at him while trying to form words) what had happened, and that I tried cleaning it, but couldn’t finish because I had to leave. He groggily said he’d clean up the rest, and I exited the room went back downstairs and grabbed my bag. But before I left, I put the broken plant piece into an empty pot that I had been on a search to find a new plant for (plants, like books always find their way to me at the exact right time), so I guess that was something, and it seems to be doing pretty well so far.
But you know what he worst part of the whole thing was? Not the dirt, or the destruction or the death; the absolute lack of shame that Berlioz exhibited through this entire ordeal.
Why’d he have to be so cute?