I was napping yesterday when T.W. came home from a run and started making a snack for himself. I hear a pop from the kitchen microwave and say "Love, you might want to check on your potato..." He rushes into the kitchen, lets out choice word or two, and says "Kate! Stay in the bedroom. Just stay in bed! Don't come in here." I immediately know what just happened. He put one of the only plates that we can't put in the microwave... in the microwave. I wait a little bit, expecting to smell the aroma of melted plastic any second, and wonder how he could be so forgetful for the five millionth time.
But irony is always a running theme in mine and T.W.'s life, and so, while cooking dinner I had the bottle of vegetable oil out to brush our cast iron skillet with to bake some cornbread. I picked it up, rushing a little too much to hand it to T.W. so it would be out of my way as I prepared to put the pan in the oven, and it slipped out of my hands... onto the floor. Thankfully the rug on the floor soaked most of it up, and T.W. cleaned up the remaining mess without a single "HA! we're even now!" or "Nah -nah -nee - boo- boo! You screwed up too!" We WERE even though, and I realized that I had been too harsh on my husband even in my mind.
Mistakes, they happen. Honey do I know. I totaled T.W.'s only mode of transportation during his first seminary exams back in the spring, and the whole time he never blamed me. I think I may have married a rare breed. Just as we have been forgiven, so should we forgive. Even when a cheap walmart plate gets melted, a spoon taken to work for lunch gets stolen leaving only 7 in the new set you got for a wedding gift, or when oil spills on a rug and all over the kitchen floor. Yup.