I Love You More Than the Fridge

Today I walked in on my toddler gouging long scratches into the polished surface of my black refrigerator.  We have a set of super-stong magnets shaped like push-pins, and a combination of their enormous magnetic force with the sharp edges of their base were a formula for disaster (as I had once discovered myself while simply sliding one over on the refrigerator door).  I suppose the sight of tiny white curls of polish blooming up with each stroke of the magnet was entertaining enough to try it over and over again because by the time I found him, some serious damage had been done.


In alarm I grabbed him away and seized the weapon, got my appliance cleaner and did my best to at least clean off the finger prints.  The scratches were even more obvious.  "Why do children destroy things??" I wailed in despair.  I thought of the $800 price-tag on that stupid fridge, and all the other ripped-up books, drowned cell-phones, cracked DVDs, and all my favorite gauzy skirts snagged to shreds by the velcro of little-boy shoes sitting on my lap on a Sunday morning at church.  And then, right there on the kitchen floor, my little boy came and curled up in my lap as if to say, "I'm sorry," and, "Cheer up, mommy, I'm here."  And I remembered.  


I have said before that children are the best cure for attachment to material things.  I hugged my baby who is growing up so fast, and becoming such an inquisitive little explorer of this great big world.  "I love you more than the fridge," I assured him, gave him a kiss and a squeeze, and calmly got up to google about whether car wax works on fridge scratches.


Sounds like it does. Well enough, anyway.