Same Old Song

If practise makes perfect, I’d have an A+ in Apologising by now! My life is a perpetual pin-ball machine, ricocheting from one fiasco to the next. Sorry seems to be a favourite frequent word.

Shoulder deep in the packed fridge, my daughter’s voice calls, “Did you buy Apple Danish and Bulla Splits today?”

Surprised, I reply in the negative. “No, why?”

“I texted you in our group chat,” comes her unsurprised, calm response .

I believe her, but it’s news to me. I check my phone and what do you know? She right… yet again. “I’m sorry!” I offer contritely. “Clearly, I didn’t make it to the far wall of the supermarket and forgot to check texts before checking out mentally. How desperate are you?” Fortunately, she’s accustomed to coping with such bitter disappointment on a regular basis.

“Nah, it’s okay Bestie! Tomorrow will do,” comes her cheerful reply.

Bestie! Just a few short years back that title was bestowed and lost in the course of a thirty minute walk together with our dog! We’d set out amicably sharing the highs and lows of our day until one wrong careless word from me and we’d stride the remainder of the circuit in salty silence. My highly sought after advice on prospective boyfriends her latest high school crush was rarely appreciated always wrong and uncaring! Those were the days… precariously walking swaying on the emotional tightrope.

Tonight our family gathers elbow to elbow around the dinner table. Bowls of tangy beef stroganoff and steaming rice tantalise our grumbling stomachs. Fulsome praise is heaped upon me. Currently my daughter’s favourite meal, it’s pronounced ‘exquisite’. A reluctant cook, I’m dubious about the praise … does it seem less tasty than last time? Maybe it’s the lactose free cream?

Conversation ebbs and flows until my attention is snared by, “Remember, Mum?”

My wandering mind reluctantly rejoins our chattering family. Apologetically I ask, “What was that? Sorry, I missed it.”

They’re tallying the various jobs they’ve had across the years. Daughter-dear chimes in with, “Remember when I wanted to be a singer, and you told me I couldn’t?”

My defence is swift and sure. “Well you used to sing very loudly out of tune and you hated performing anywhere except alone, in front of your mirror!”

“I could have learnt!” She’s not backing down…

“Maybe… I’m sorry,” I offer, only slightly penitent. “You were also dead set on becoming a Pole Vaulter, remember? We would have needed to sell up everything and relocate to Canberra or Sydney!”

“That’s right, I really wanted to become a Pole Vaulter, like my hero Steve Hooker!” She sighs, fondly reminiscing.

I continue, “Anyway, apart from the cost, you couldn’t have done it with your pronated ankles… they’d have snapped under stress, and I don’t just mean emotional!” I don’t feel even a smidge of guilt over my lack of support for that career path.

Undeterred, sights remain trained on me… poor little, Mum! Mealtimes are so relaxing. “Hey, what about Mum always telling us it was Jedd-black and then years later, changing her tune to to jet black?” This is a sure fire call to rally her brothers’ support.

“Absolutely not!” No way am I owning that old chestnut. “You clearly weren’t listening properly!” This recurring ‘wrong’ remains unrighted in their minds… as always. Good natured though it is, each of us remain resolute in our stance… probably for all time!

In silence, we continue with our tasty meal. A welcome reprieve. However, Little Miss Mischievous isn’t done yet. “How about last night, when I asked if Hudson was going to die? What was your compassionate response? “I don’t know… he might!””

My defence barely falters. “Well he could have. I’m not a prophet! His heart was racing, breathing was terrible and he was trembling. He could barely move — post-op — so we couldn’t get him to a vet. All we could do was hope and pray! You know I don’t lie or guild the truth.”

“But I didn’t want to be told that, not last night, when we might have lost him!” She argues.

Apologetically, I concede. “Sorry, you’re right. I probably should have dreamt up a more gentle answer… but I was tired, we both were. Anyway, the good news is, your precious dog’s doing much better this morning!

Anything else I need to apologise for, before I scuttle off to rinse the dishes? “Arrr, Arrr, Arrr! I feel a bit like a beaten dog,” I joke. “Oops, Sorry, I’ll leave poor, recuperating Hudson out of this.”

I sound like a scratched record, and just as old. Phew!

Imagine how I’d fare, if I didn’t hold Bestie status!

*

This tale, condenses many ‘offences’ into a single night and is only slightly embellished. Apology worthy mishaps do follow me around. Only yesterday I was rudely awoken at 01:04 am. I sheepishly whispered “Sorry”, after my Garmin watch inexplicably lost my phone and set it shrilly BLING… BLING… blinging!

Written for the challenge below: