I often hurt myself by running around and bumping into tables at home when I was young. I would cry and my mom would come to the rescue, smack the furniture, and say, “Bad table. Bad.”
That was her way of easing my pain. ?
Poor table. ?
Sometimes, it was the wall too. “Bad wall. Very bad wall.” (Smack!)
It wasn’t the wisest way to empathize with kids. But for the little me, back in the day, it was very comforting.
To see my mom get mad at an object and put the blame on it instead of on me? Oh, it would hush and calm me down. It was not my fault, right? I wasn’t clumsy or naughty. That furniture! Those walls!
To this day, I still trip in the most unlikely places. My pinky toe also gets stubbed all the time as if it has a mind of its own, deciding not to go where the rest of my body is going. But of course, I have matured and I don’t blame the grocery cart with wobbly wheels for it. Or the door that was left open by someone else. Or the hallway lights that weren’t on.
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