During the usual Wednesday shenanigans yesterday, we lost a plate. It shattered in typical Corelle fashion, tiny fragments surrounding a waffle (peanut butter side down, of course) and skittering across the kitchen floor. The impact scared the cat so badly, he knocked over the stool he’d been on as he fled the room.
I don’t know if it’s a testament to the durability of Corelle dishes or just a particularly wide streak of luck, but this is the first plate we’ve lost in more than 10 years. Someone did point out that once you break one, the rest follow suit in solidarity, so maybe I shouldn’t feel quite so self-congratulatory.
During the cleanup, though, I looked up to find Caitlyn in obvious distress. She was at the table and had been told to stay put until we got things cleaned up, since there were plate shards pretty much everywhere and she wasn’t wearing shoes.
I asked her if she was hurt at all.
“What’s the matter?”
“I really liked that plate!” Her face quivered a little, clearly trying not to cry.
It’s going to be ok, I told her. It’s a really common pattern from a really common dish company. If we miss the plate, we can buy a replacement at the outlet store next time we drive to Portland.
When the floor was clean and it was safe for feet again, Caitlyn got down from her chair and I asked if she needed a hug. She jumped up and wrapped herself around me and cried on my shoulder. It’s ok to be sad, I told her.
I wonder if we should have broken a plate before this…