My Big, Fat Mouth

Little Guy and I like to dream. We dream about the house we want to build together. We dream about the house he wants for himself when he’s an adult. He said he wanted a house, a big house, as big as the one that his dad and I had together. 

I said, “When will you have the time to clean it?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You don’t want a big house again?”

“No, I would never want a house that big again. It was too much for me. I couldn’t keep it clean by myself,” I said.

“But what about my dad?” he asked. “He was there to help you clean it.”

I snorted. “Yeah, but…”

“Is that why you got divorced?” LIttle Guy asked me.

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That’s what it looks like when my forehead hits the keyboard. It isn’t pretty.

I regretted my words. Fortunately, we went inside his school right then, saving me from putting my foot in my mouth any further.

On our way home, I apologized to Little Guy for what I said about his dad. I don’t want him to have negative feelings or memories about his dad. I expressed my appreciation for everything else his dad did, even though it didn’t help me clean the house. He worked hard to provide for us. He built the best porch I had ever seen or owned. He did a lot, and I don’t want to take that for granted.

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