cherry tomatoes, maggie mcreynolds blog

Tomato Injures Boy, Self

When my son was about 18 months old, he figured out how to open the refrigerator, a development that came to my attention one morning when I heard him give a sudden wail from the kitchen. Heart in my throat—had he burned himself? Was something broken? Was he bleeding?—I ran in and found him standing in front of the open refrigerator and holding half a cherry tomato, his face covered with juice and seeds and the flush of outrage. “It kachoo-ed at me!” he sobbed indignantly.

What a cool, fascinating deduction! Based on his limited experience—he had never eaten a tomato before, but he had, apparently, been sneezed upon—he came to a brilliant, though entirely wrong-headed, conclusion. It took me a while to convince him that the stuff I was cleaning off his face was not, in fact, tomato snot.

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river dam, maggie mcreynolds blog

In Recovery

“Low Disk Space!” said the error message on my laptop. “You are running out of disk space on your recovery drive! Delete old or unnecessary files!”

I had been getting this message every three or four minutes for over a week, ever since a failed back-up attempt. I had tried clicking where it said to click, deleting the files it suggested I delete, and reinitiating a back-up, but still the error message kept flashing, infuriating in its persistence. I had far too much to do to figure out how to make it go away.

See, that’s the thing, I was busy. I had deadlines, both external and internal, and I had my hands full with flogging myself to meet them. There wasn’t time to cook dinner, or eat healthily, or exercise, or meditate. There wasn’t time to read, or watch TV, or go for a walk. I had important things to do, urgent things. I was taking care of business.

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Ask for What You Want

A woman is sitting, menu closed in front of her, in a nice restaurant. Angrily, she waves at a passing waiter. “Where’s my dinner?” she demands.

woman holds blank placard, maggie mcreynolds blogThe waiter is nonplussed. “You haven’t ordered yet,” he says.

Unfortunately, the customer is unmoved by mere logic. “You ought to know what I want!”

“But…how would I know that?” the waiter stammers.

“If you really valued me as a customer,” the woman insists, “you’d know what I want.”

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