The Compost Jar of The Mind

The Compost Jar of The Mind

I was sitting in a patch of sunlight warming the kitchen table—pumping milk, listening to classical music on Pandora, and reading an article about being a kind mama.

Garbanzo beans were cooking on the stove that I was later going to turn into hummus.

My toddler was playing quietly with natural objects—okay, a piece of wood and a toilet paper roll—while my infant strengthened her calf muscles by bouncing in her jumper.

It was a perfect moment. I felt, for once, that I was able to handle it all.

And then I went to pour the five ounce bottle of milk into another bottle I’d never used before. I didn’t realize I was missing a piece. Milk poured out of the bottle like a sieve.

All over my tablecloth, nearly on my laptop. All over my freshly mopped floor.

Whoever coined the phrase, ‘Don’t cry over spilled milk,’ has never been hooked up to a pump.

But I didn’t cry. In fact, I cussed…

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