Or, the story of how children mostly just break everything.
The quote in the title was part of a explanation from my five-year old neighbor, said with an air of pride and surprise, that she had owned her plastic sword for a very long time (like, more than a year) and it had not broken yet. So remarkable was that fact, she had decided the sword was unbreakable–even though made of plastic and purchased at the circus. I am totally with her, though; that sword must have some magic powers, because children break pretty much everything.
I share the most recent example: this morning at church. We came in late, as we do, and so sat toward the back. Ella was in charge of packing her own entertainment for the one hour-ish session and carefully selected five, small, identical plastic zebras. (The choice, incidentally, allowed me to say the awesome, new-to-humanity sentence, “Stop lining up your zebras and brush your hair.” I always like thinking that I am saying something that no one has ever said before.) We sat next to dear friends of ours and their similarly-aged daughter had also brought plastic animals. What are the odds? She had reptiles–snakes and lizards and something else. Maybe frogs. The zebras and the lizards tried to hang out together at first. Lining up. Thinking about Pride Rock and the Glass Menagerie. Planning future dioramas. But, eventually, a fight broke out. And the snakes kept knocking the zebras over and the zebras stampeded the reptile cave. It was all in good fun–very energetic, almost-certainly-louder-than-it-should-have-been fun–and I mostly let it go because we were still on track for her best behavior at church all year. Maybe ever.
Big mistake. As it turns out (hindsight, oh, hindsight), the menagerie fight served to awaken the real beast: six-year old destructive energy. The incessant moving. The inability to keep from grabbing all objects in proximity. Running and jumping as the only acceptable method of transportation. Fortunately, as I said, we were toward the back. And in an act of true grace, the woman immediately behind us was *actually* blind. And there was another three-year old who kept yelling loudly. I thought we could make it.
Communion. Ella was late walking up the aisle with the rest of us because she had to collect her five zebras to come along. Obviously. And then she realized half way up that she couldn’t receive bread and hold zebras, so she gave them all to me. Awesome. My pants had pockets, so I filled them with zebra. We had a nice, peaceful 53 seconds of communion, and then MI and D2, following proper protocol, left the altar. Ella did not. She stood on it and started to bounce. No. I leaned in to stop her and lead her away, at precisely the same time that she either lost interest, realized it was almost time for snack, or saw an opportunity to run.
She exuberantly bounded off the altar–straight into my face–as I leaned forward to corral her. And thus came to pass the first time that someone BROKE MY NOSE AT CHURCH. Right up in front of the congregation. At the altar of God. Immediately next to the choir. BROKE MY NOSE AT CHURCH.
My eyes watered, but I did not scream or cry. Pretty much, I was a badass at getting my nose broken at church. I do think people noticed, since she and I were pretty much the last ones up there. MI told me, though, that it was not clear from my face whether I’d had a strongly spiritual moment or a terrible accident. I bet they assumed the best of me, unless they’d been watching Ella much. She immediately realized my pain and loudly apologized with, “I am sorry. I am so sorry. I am soooo sorry. Can I have my zebras?” I yell-whispered that no, she could NOT have her zebras (No zebras if you break someone’s nose.) and shuffled, semi-blind back to my seat.
Reflection. After the end of the service, which was graciously not long, MI and my friend laughed at the story and then politely suggested that my nose was perhaps rather crooked. I straightened it the best I could in the bathroom, with some backup from MI in the car, and am now waiting to see what happens post-swelling.
I add this to the pile of stories of things broken. The mounting list of mysteriously missing items. The odd way everything is sticky around the house. Kids.