Mister: Do you smell something cooking?
Me: Well… maybe. Maybe the heat just turned on?
Five minutes later…
Mister: I smell something cooking.
Me: I’m not cooking anything.
Five minutes later…
The Mister killed the kettle.
The Mister killed the kettle but if we are being honest it could easily have been me. In fact, info I have tried many times to kill this kettle.
I had nothing against this particular kettle per se, read it’s just that I would often turn it on, arthritis leave the whistle up, and then go back to our room/office and forget about it. So you see, It was still partially my fault. I hate it when the kettle whistles because I’m paranoid it is going to wake up Moira. This is what parenting does to you – it makes you live in fear that those precious quiet moments are going to be stolen from you by a loud noise. The doorbell. The kettle. I would add the phone to that list except it has been on a super quiet ring since the moment Moira came home from the hospital and we can barely hear it (and we like it that way). Silence, in this house, is indeed golden.
Anyway, the Mister killed the kettle by breaking his rule which is, “always put the whistle down” and he did so because he knows I hate it when it whistles. (We have no counter space for a plug in kettle so don’t bother suggesting it.)
And thus, the Mister killing the kettle saw us doing something we wouldn’t normally do: go to Home Depot.
We certainly wouldn’t go to Home Depot early on Thanksgiving morning when all we want to do is sit at home and eat pumpkin pie leftovers.
However with the death of the kettle came the death of another burner and that meant we had to go to Home Depot. This was all too reminiscent of what we called new parent syndrome when the Mister boiled away the formula dropper we were using to feed Moira the day after we came home from the hospital. The Mister, seeing that I desperately needed a couple hours sleep, took Moira into the backroom and let her scream at him while wondering how his 3-day old, 7lb daughter could reach such piercing volume. Meanwhile he was ‘sterilizing’ the dropper into oblivion and filling the apartment with acrid black smoke. I woke up and thought, “is something cooking?”
Tell me your new parent syndrome stories or, if you don’t have any stories of your attempts at burning down your kitchen? It will make the Mister and I feel better.