Lactastrophe

"It's no use crying over spilled milk."

I'm sure you've all heard the old adage. And for most folks it is completely true. At our house however, shedding a few tears over spilled milk is perfectly justified due to the fact that spilling milk is akin to spraying the house with baby poison. In fact, for us spilled milk is not just a minor mess, it is a full blown lactastrophe.

lac-tas-tro-phe \lak-tas-truh-fee\ noun, 1. any misfortune, mishap, or failure involving milk. 2. any event that results in an individual crying over spilled milk.

We have had many lactastrophes in the past year, starting with the unfortunate discovery of Matthew's affliction, which resulted in a visit to the emergency room. Some of the others include "The Drink From Someone Else's Bottle Event" (Panic Attack-3/31/08), "The Milky Chex Incident" (Reality Check-4/18/08), the occasion of Daniel dropping a nearly empty cup of milk which resulted in droplets being flung all over the kitchen, and last week's "There's a Hole in the Bottom of the Milk Jug-Let's See How Full the Refrigerator Door Bin Gets Before It Overflows Fiasco."

Today we added yet another lactastrophe to our list, which is growing much too long and is definitely going to get longer. This morning I was standing at the sink washing Rice Crispies and toast crumbs from Matthew's hands and face when Daniel, who was buttering his toast, energetically knocked over his completely full glass of milk with his elbow. The milk flew all over the counter, dripping down the cupboards onto the floor and spraying my legs in the process. So there is was, Matthew in one hand, the other hand still in the running water, Matthew's hands and face still wet, and milk dripping down my legs. It was one of those moments where I really just had to stop, say "Huh," and take a moment to figure out what to do next. Luckily for us, Kev was still home and handed me a paper towel to dry my legs off, which I did with many contortions in order to prevent Matthew from being contaminated. Then, assured that I would not drip milk all the way across the room therefore furthering our dilemma, I dropped Matthew on the other side of the room with Nathan posted as the Milk Police, commissioned to keep Matthew away from the disaster. I proceeded to sit on the edge of the tub and wash my legs and feet while Kev and Daniel began the clean up. Once I was clean, I joined the salvage operation, saving one piece of toast from my plate (the other piece was now milk toast . . . yuck) and sterilizing the bottoms of all the cups and plates that were on the counter. Kev and Daniel wiped up the rest of the milk and cleaned the cupboard and the counters. Then Kev carried Daniel to the tub for decontamination. Kev mopped the floor while Daniel washed and I picked up the milk-laden kitchen rug.

It was five whole minutes after that when I found Matthew holding the milk dampened rug in his hands. Sigh. Wash him again. To which he objected violently.


Milk spillage is such a production. But at least it leads to wonderful deep cleaning of the kitchen.