Hubs had tried twice to unclog the vacuum. Unsuccessfully. He and Jack had gone out to get planting supplies for our flower garden and the stupid vacuum was sitting in the middle of the filthy living room rug.
The damn thing had been clogged for like a month and every time I tried to vacuum, it spit out more dust than it picked up. I’d once again implored the Hubs to take a peek at it, but he hadn’t gotten around to it.
Long story short, I took the thing apart, with the cheerful support of my six year old daughter, and plucked out a huge wedge of dust and fur along with a broken clothes pin that had been horizontally blocking the hole. It took me a couple tries to put the thing back together, but I got it set straight and was happily sucking up a month’s worth of decrepitude.
Hubs and Jack got home and I proudly announced that I’d fixed the vacuum.
“How’d you do that?” Hubs asked incredulously.
“I exerted my domestic goddess nature on it,” I smiled.
“Mama,” Jack chimed in. “Did you yell at it?”
“No, Punk,” I said, mildly annoyed by the smirks on the three other faces of my family. “I did not yell at the vacuum. Why would you even say that?”
“Well, you are really good at yelling,” Jack laughed.
“Very funny,” I said and dragged the vacuum upstairs to do the master bedroom.
It was actually pretty funny. Jack’s timing was totally on point and we were all able to have a chuckle at my expense. I don’t know if I would categorize myself as a yeller. I do raise my voice on occasion, out of frustration, and truth be told I am not the world’s most patient person.
But it is always interesting to get a little glimpse of how my kids see me as a human. And of course they do not see that for the one time I yell, there are about 47 other times where I take a deep breath and remind myself to go slow.
At any rate, I’m pretty sure the time that Mama (did not) yell(ed) at the vacuum to make it work again will go down in my family’s mythology.